


you could make a life outtakes (2014-2016)

by youcouldmakealife



Series: ycmal outtakes [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 03:06:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 177
Words: 117,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1210375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of snippets originally posted on tumblr based in the general universe presented in <i>you could make a life</i> and its companion series.  Canon and AU within, ranging from G-rated gen to explicit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Marc & Sarah, arguments about Jean-Luc Godard

Sarah loves Marc like a brother, like her favourite brother, sometimes, but right now, at this moment, she sort of wants to slap him.

"Godard is not overrated," she hisses.

Marc looks at her placidly. “He uses improvisation because he has no ideas of his own,” he says, mild, like he isn’t spouting blasphemy.

"That is so patently untrue I can’t even deal with you," Sarah snaps. "Dan."

"What," Dan says, head snapping up, looking startled and a little guilty, which means he was tuning them out.

"Your husband’s an asshole," she says.

"Your sister has no culture," Marc says primly.

Dan groans and lets his head fall back against the couch. “Why do you guys bring up Godard _every time?_ ” he asks.

"Because he’s wrong," Sarah says. "And I want him to admit it."

Marc bares his teeth at her. Sarah could describe it as a smile, but that’d really be a misnomer.

"I hate you both," Dan mumbles, and they both condescendingly pat him on the shoulder, _there, there,_ before glaring daggers at one another again.


	2. Liam POV

Mike’s in a bad mood. Mike’s pretty much always in a bad mood, so if Liam’s saying he’s in a bad mood, it’s bad. Duck, run away, hide. That kind of bad. Not that Liam usually pays attention, but today Mike’s in a bad mood for an extra stupid reason, so Liam’s going to go out and have fun and also spite the bastard, because seriously, Mike’s still not over Luke Morris, and it’s ridiculous.

Liam doesn’t know what Luke said—Mike won’t tell him, because Mike would probably literally prefer to have his teeth pulled than talk about feelings. Ben won’t tell him, even though he obviously knows, because his cheeks go pink when he lies. But Mike threw a shitfit the last time they played Calgary, wouldn’t answer his phone, respond to knocking, anything, just hid in his hotel room like a baby, and Liam ended up curled up outside Ben’s door because not having a roommate anymore sucks when your boyfriend is sulking.

The Flames are in town, and Mike looked like he was itching for a fight the whole game, but Luke was pretty much all bruise and stuck clear of him. So Mike’s still itching for one, enough that everyone in the locker room is leaning out of his space in case he snaps and kills them.

“Hey,” Liam says, leaning over Roge to poke at Benny’s shoulder. “You going out with your brother?”

“Yeah?” Ben says, darting a look over at Mike like he might eat him. Liam would tell him he’s all bark and no bite, but Benny’s naive, not stupid.

Roge gives Liam an unimpressed look, like he knows exactly what Liam’s going to say next, and doesn’t approve one bit.

Whatever, Liam lives on his own now, Roge isn’t the boss of him.

“Can I come?” Liam asks. “I haven’t seen him since August.”

Ben’s eyes dart around again.

“Please?” Liam pushes.

“Okay?” Ben says, finally.

For once, Mike finishes getting ready faster than Liam, and he lingers in the doorway when there’s just a few of them left in the room, doing the little head-tilt that says _there is no fucking way I am going to say this out loud, but would you like to come over and hang out, fuck and then cuddle? Like boyfriends? Which I will not admit we are?_. Liam speaks Mike really well by now.

Liam shrugs back, which is totally not the standard answer, and Mike looks kind of startled, then all thundercloud eyebrows and doom face.

Ben leans away from Liam like if Mike can’t see him he can’t be mad at him for this. Liam takes it back, he is both naive _and_ stupid. Mike can be mad at anyone for anything. It’s his superpower.

“We going?” Liam asks Ben, and Ben shrinks back into his stall when Mike catches on then turns the rage face on him. Ben cracks too easily, he needs to be distracted.

“C’mon,” Liam says, punching Ben hard enough in the shoulder that he glares at Liam and takes his attention off where Mike is looming in the doorway. Liam raises his eyebrows at Mike, and Mike finally seems to realise that he’s doing that thing where he shows that he actually gives a shit about Liam.

He doesn’t like doing that, so he splits pretty quick.

They meet Luke outside, where he spends a couple of minutes ribbing Ben and making him regret being related to him before he grins at Liam. “Spitfire,” he says.

“Don’t,” Ben whines.

Liam grins right back. “Miss me?” he asks.

Luke pulls him into a one armed hug. “You know it,” he says. “Where’s your daddy, is it past his bedtime?”

“Luke,” Ben says. He sounds mortified.

Liam is belatedly realising why Mike is stomping around the place. “Shit,” he says. “You totally chirped him about me.”

“Yeah?” Luke says.

Oh shit, he is so lucky Mike only knocked a tooth out, Roge chirped Mike about Liam the other day and Mike looked like he was going to kill him, and Mike _likes_ Roge.

“You’re so dumb,” Liam groans.

“I tried to tell him that,” Ben mumbles.

Luke looks between them, looking amused. “You guys are way too afraid of Brouwer,” he says.

Liam laughs in Luke’s face.


	3. Luke & Ben, post-canon

Luke stares at the wall for five minutes, just numb, but then he goes to sit on the bed, and Nikita’s undershirt’s on the floor because of course it is, it’s not like he was going to put it back on when it’s got their spunk on it, and he just stares at it and he thinks he might hurl because Nikita said the thing that Luke has wanted him to say and Luke asked him to leave and he thinks that was right, he thinks he made the right choice, but he’s going to be sick.

He isn’t, but his entire body’s pushing him to move, and it’s pushing him in Nikita’s direction, so he gets his phone and he calls Ben, and Ben doesn’t pick up, and he calls Ben again and Ben answers, pissed, and says “It’s almost one in the morning,” because he’s mad at Luke and it’s a dick time to be calling, but he’s always going to be there if Luke needs him, and Luke doesn’t make a habit out of desperation.

And Luke just says, “If I come up to Edmonton right now, will you be there?”, and his voice is shaking. 

They had a home game that night, and they’re not playing until the day after tomorrow, all Ben has is optional practice in the morning, so he says, “Yeah,” automatic, before he remembers he’s pissed, because his big brother’s voice is shaking and he’s never heard that before. But then he does remember, so he says, “What did you do?”, because it’s a fair enough guess.

And Luke laughs, this laugh like broken glass, and Ben’s heart just drops, and he says “I’ll be here,” and then, right after, because he’s Ben, “Are you good to drive?”

And Luke says, “Probably not,” and then “See you soon, kid,” and Ben gets out of bed (he was halfway to sleep when Luke called), and paces his apartment chewing his lip until Luke gets there because when you answer ‘probably not’, you should not be driving, but he can’t call or text Luke because what if THAT is the thing that distracts him, and he basically has decided Luke is dead on the side of the road by the time Luke knocks, and he’s so relieved that Luke’s alive (Ben is REALLY a worrier, but to be fair, his brother has been drinking a LOT lately, and there’s no reason to think he hasn’t that night) that he hugs him and when Luke’s shoulders start shaking under his hands he just holds him tighter because he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be old enough to see his big brother crying.

Ben had a lot of time to worry while Luke was coming up, even, because Luke tends to be super blase about things. He brushes off injuries, especially with their mom because she worries, but with Ben too. Everything’s super fucked up right now, even for Luke, like, Ben had to deal with a call from his parents asking if HE knew what the fuck was wrong with his brother after the picture and news of the bar fight came out, and he was so pissed at Luke after, especially since the first question he got after his game the next day was about Luke’s behaviour, like Ben has any answer for anyone. He wishes he understood Luke, he’s always tried to.

So he has absolutely no idea what he’s supposed to expect because Luke was freaking out and Luke doesn’t freak out, or if he does, the major emotion is anger, not whatever was making his voice shake. There was a game against the Jets that night and for once Luke wasn’t in the highlights, hell, it was pointed out that Luke wasn’t in the highlights, because Luke and Sidorchuk fighting is basically a guarantee. So there is a thread of worry that Luke’s gotten himself hurt bad this time because he hasn’t been fighting, but they wouldn’t have let him play either, then. Or that Luke’s been threatened to clean up his game (true enough), and they sent him down or something.

What he isn’t expecting is what Luke ends up telling him, and it’s messed up and all out of order so it takes Ben forever to put it together enough to make sense, and even then it really doesn’t, because Luke is tough and brash and lets everything roll off his back and would never, ever let someone hurt him, but he did, and he is hurt, and Ben holds onto him like he used to when he was a kid and Luke was his hero and he thought if he hung onto him some of Luke would rub off on him, he’d be amazing like him. Luke keeps trying to shrug him off, but not hard, he’d easily be able to if he really wanted Ben to let go, and they both know it, so Ben just keeps holding on until it’s all out and Luke’s got nothing else in him and then Ben holds on just a little longer than that.


	4. Luke/Liam, what almost happened

Ben Morris is a killjoy. Little brother, best bud, rock. Killjoy. Motherfucking killjoy. Except not. Ew. 

Liam comes up to Grande Prairie with Ben again when they’re 20, and he is basically the saddest sad to ever be sad. He wafts sadness from every pore. It is the most depressing thing ever. Luke is half expecting to walk in on him weeping, it is that bad.

The first day Ben says something about Brouwer being an asshole (duh) and warns Luke not to have sex with Liam. Please. Ben is literally begging, do not have sex with the tragic waif. _Please._

Which is totally easy to agree to, because Luke is not interested in fucking someone who may actually burst into tears during sex. Total boner killer. So Luke agrees, and Ben hugs him, and cool.

Except three days in they’re supposed to go out, but Ben’s got a summer cold, and he waves them off and goes to text his girlfriend or something, which is all he does when he isn’t eating or sleeping, pretty much. And Luke braces himself to get cried on. He did not agree to that. Ben is the person to cry on, he doesn’t panic like Luke will.

Except Liam doesn’t get more tragic with each drink, he gets less tragic, which is great, but then there’s a certain drink threshold he hits where he becomes all smiley and flushed and flirty, he is flirting so hard, Luke has flirted with the kid for years, and this is by far his best flirting effort yet, probably because he’s actually single for the first time. And he’s fucking adorable, it is insane how cute he is, Luke is caught between wanting to fuck him and wanting to protect him from bad things. Like Luke, Luke is probably a bad thing.

And if Ben hadn’t asked, no, _begged_ , wanting to fuck him totally would have won out, by last call Liam’s half in his lap and Luke’s been half hard for fucking hours, this is actually torture, Liam keeps biting his lip and Luke wants to bite it _for him_ , but Luke is trying to grow as a person, he really is, and Ben’s a huge part of that, and again, BEGGED Luke not to, and Luke agreed, even if he was sadly unaware of how hard the thing he was agreeing to was going to be.

So instead he gets Liam home safe, all bundled up in the guest room and looking sad, but this time because Luke was a gentleman and took Liam’s hand off his belt and booked it, and he opens Ben’s door, and turns the light on and when Ben wakes and squints up at him he points at the kid, says, “I fucking hate you,” and then storms off to his own room to jerk off.


	5. Dan/Marc; baby fever

Dan’s baby fever becomes an actual problem when he goes out for lunch with his family the day of a game in Toronto. Sarah has recently settled down with a guy who Dan doesn’t actively want to harm, which makes it her most successful relationship ever pretty much, because Dan only wants to harm her boyfriends because they’re all assholes. Their parents are needling her a bit about her biological clock, just completely joking, but then Sarah seriously informs them that she doesn’t want kids, no not ever, no, never mom, sorry, you’re going to have to get Dan and Marc to get on that.

Marc is blissfully unaware that this happened, or that Dan’s mom, who really hadn’t been thinking too much about grandkids but is now honed in on the thought, has been polluting Dan’s all too impressionable mind with thoughts. Baby thoughts.

He finds out purely accidentally, because he’s fiddling around on Dan’s computer while Dan’s in the shower, and has to go into Dan’s email to log out so he can go on his own, and then there’s this like, 20 message long conversation between Dan and his mom at the very top, titled “You and Marc better hurry up”. And Marc is NOT the kind of guy who goes snooping, because he trusts Dan implicitly, but his name’s in the email! He wants to know what he should hurry up with!

And there’s BABIES. Dan’s cousin recently had a little girl, Marc vaguely remembers Dan telling him, and the latest email is pictures of a squashed alien blob and Dan’s mom cooing over it and when Dan comes out of the shower Marc immediately goes “We are NOT retired,” and Dan’s like “…aw, shit.” 

So he tells Marc what Sarah had said, and how Dan’s mom was maybe having a late mid-life crisis about it, like she’s joking mostly Dan thinks but not completely, and Dan KNOWS they’re waiting but LOOK AT THE TINY LITTLE HANDS AND TINY LITTLE FEET LOOK AT THEM, BABE. BABY HANDS. BABY FEET. 

Marc sends Sarah a stream of increasingly profane and creative texts about the manner in which he will kill her and Sarah laughs endlessly because she is a terrible human being.


	6. Ulf; falling in love is terrible

So let me tell you about that awful point when Larsson kind of gets a crush on Dan. They’ve been doing this for three years now, not by any strict schedule, just when Dan comes to Larsson or Larsson goes to Dan, they usually fuck, and then Larsson tells Marc all about it the next day and doesn’t skimp on how awesome Dan is because he knows that’s Marc’s favourite part. And him and Marc manfully pretend they’re not both getting off on those phone calls. Dan apparently tells him too, but Marc says Dan is totally factual and boring, whereas Larsson is a good storyteller, so Larsson is just going to pretend his best friend isn’t jerking off to hearing about how Larsson fucked his husband, okay? How when Larsson held Dan’s wrists down and when Dan fought it he realised Larsson actually had leverage on him and he couldn’t get out of it, and he came untouched that night (Larsson explains the bruises so Marc doesn’t get all Dan injury trigger-happy). Or the night Larsson didn’t even fuck him, just got him up on his knees and elbows and ate him out until he actually broke down and begged, managed to get four fingers in him when Dan went off, and fucked Dan’s mouth while he was easy and drowsy eyed and dopey. 

Dan is awesome in bed (Larsson appreciates that Dan had a slutty period so much, though he knows Marc doesn’t, really), Larsson’s as much of a switch as Dan is, but he knows Dan’s usually on top with Marc (such a waste of a perfect ass), and usually the dominant one, so he likes that when he’s with Dan he’s fulfilling a need Dan has, if Larsson wants to get fucked he’ll go out and find someone to do it, because Dan needs the domination, it tides him over and scratches the itch, and then Marc and Dan go do whatever cuddly shit they do. Larsson is not a cuddler. The closest thing to cuddling he does is with Marc when they watch movies, because Marc’s tactile with the people he loves. Or at least Larsson and Dan. 

Three years in, Larsson gets traded to the Rangers, which is totally like, triple the fun, basically, because if Dan is playing the Isles or the Devils and is in the mood, then excellent, and if Marc is playing any of the three it’s movie night, salt and butter free popcorn (awesome with some black pepper and paprika) and best buddy cuddles. He is super happy about it, not just for those reasons, though they’re huge, but also because New York is an EXCELLENT city to get laid in, jesus. 

No one knows who he is, but he isn’t flattering himself to say that is basically irrelevant because he looks good and he dresses well (and expensive) and he’s got enough charisma that he’d probably manage even without the first two. It’s really awesome, and Marc gives him the thumbs up to have sex with Dan whenever he’s in town, which is a LOT, especially compared to the four games a season they’re used to, and Dan gets banged up pretty bad during a game versus the Devils, nothing serious, just sore and tense, and he won’t listen to Larsson tell him they could just have dinner and talk about all the ways Marc is amazing (shockingly, one of Dan’s favourite subjects, Larsson is a pro on why both of them are amazing, he has heard alllllllll the arguments), but Dan’s kind of in a snit with Marc over something stupid (as far as Larsson can tell, dish washing? But he’ll admit he doesn’t care so he kind of tuned them both out), anyway, they end up in bed but it’s just an easy night, Larsson sucking Dan off slow, two fingers in him, Dan returning the favour because he is always, always happy to get a dick in his mouth, Larsson has never actually met anyone so happy to suck cock, honestly, Marc lucked out (and shared the wealth, bless the tiny little Frenchman), and after Dan looks so tired and drained Larsson doesn’t have the heart to send him back to his hotel, just sets his alarm really early so he can drive Dan back, or at least get him a cab, and ends up falling asleep with his face tucked between Dan’s shoulderblades and he wakes up to his alarm and doesn’t want to get out of bed, doesn’t even want to fuck, just wants to lie there with his arm still draped over Dan’s side and Dan making sad sounds at the noise, and then he gets the fuck out of bed like he’s been burnt because that is NOT an acceptable feeling to have about your best friend’s husband, no matter how much you like fucking them. 

Like, how do you fuck someone who is awesome in bed and an amazing person (seriously, you know allllllllllllllllllllll about how amazing a person he is, thanks Marc), and just a really genuinely nice guy, and then NOT have him grow on you? He’d already been kind of fond of Dan in the first place because he made Marc happy and sometimes it’s hard to make Marc happy, Marc is just kind of difficult in general, so kudos to Dan, but now there’s all that and also Larsson knows what he sounds like when he’s close, and what he looks like with Larsson’s cock in his mouth, all half lidded satiety, and how sometimes his laugh is kind of embarrassing sounding once he trusts you enough to do the dopey Dan Riley laugh (Marc told Larsson about it for YEARS, and now Larsson is similarly super fond of it, shit).

What he should do, the next day, is tell Marc that he thinks he’s developing feelings for Dan and that they should renegotiate things or take a breather until he gets over it, he’s single right now, Dan’s been his only repeated bed buddy in months, it might just be that, but that would involve, you know, not sleeping with Dan when the Sens are playing the Rangers in two weeks, and Larsson is totally aware that he’s completely betraying Marc’s trust and Dan’s trust by not disclosing this because the whole thing is predicated on Larsson being able to provide this for Dan and Marc without in any way affecting anyone’s relationships with each other (other than the sex, obvs), but he doesn’t want to take a breather, he doesn’t want to not see Dan in two weeks. So he tells Marc about the sex, a little short, and feels like shit, and then goes out that night and sleeps with a girl who’s really nice and has freckles all over and a smokey laugh and she sleeps where Dan slept the night before, and he just firmly tells himself if he ignores it, it’ll go away, and in the meantime, there is an entire city of really attractive, sometimes nice people he can make himself busy with and then it will just…go away. And he won’t feel guilty talking to his best friend. Because Marc is the only family he has on this continent and there is nothing in the world he would do to fuck that up.

And then he’s like, “hah, Marc would probably be flattered, he has incepted me with Dan ideas until I’m buying them, he’d be PROUD.” But he still doesn’t say anything, and when Marc is in Ottawa he barely refrains from snapping that he really doesn’t want to hear about their super snuggly loving sex life, okay, fuck.


	7. Luke & Ben; progress

One of the only pitfalls of running to the Eastern Conference is leaving his baby brother to take care of himself. Or to take care of himself, his girlfriend, and their two dogs, because Ben’s always been the responsible one, the second he stopped trying to hold Luke’s hand he started picking up after his messes. It wasn’t like they shared a city, but Calgary and Edmonton practically rub up against one another, compared to the distance from Edmonton to New Jersey, the token two games a year. Ben’s face had crumpled a little when Luke had accepted the Devils’ offer, and Luke had pretended not to see it, because shit was easier that way. There’s something about being somewhere else, anywhere else, that sits right with him, no matter how much he loves his brother, no matter how much he loves the city that drafted him, pitted him against his childhood heroes. 

But there are good parts. Never mind actual physical distance from his own shit, after the Devils kick the Oilers’ asses right in front of their collective mothers, instead of just grabbing a drink before hitting the sack, Ben invites him over. For dinner.

It’s not exactly a traditional one, considering that it’s past eleven, hell, past one in Luke’s head, and Ben’s still got a sluggishly bleeding nose from an errant elbow (specifically Luke’s errant elbow, but it was genuinely an accident, he swears). Ben’s nasal with his nose stuffed with cotton, and Luke’s trying not to make fun of him for it, because it’s technically his fault, but it’s too tempting to ignore.

When they get back to Ben’s, the table is set, matching plates, actual silverware, and food that looks edible. More than edible. Food that looks good.

“Dude,” Luke says, gives Ben a supportive elbow, because his brother did good. “You made this, Vicki?” 

She laughs at him. “I set the table and warmed some stuff up,” she says, finally. “Your brother spent three days running around like Julia Childs.”

Ben’s ears go red, and Luke nudges him again, gentle.

“Got to be better at everything?” he asks, and Ben glowers at him. Luke shuts up to eat, pretty much completely, because it’s actually amazing and he can totally see Ben cooking every minute he had free, just to impress Luke, still trying to catch up to him. Ben’s just about the only person in the world who hasn’t figured out he surpassed Luke years ago, and just keeps running further ahead. If any part of Luke resented that, it doesn’t anymore. Ben works for it. 

He doesn’t want to leave, after, but it’s late, late for Ben and painfully early for Luke, and even though Ben’s still the only person he could sleep through the night beside, he’s got someone else to take up the space and Luke’s got a flight tomorrow anyway. But Christmas break is minor, and Ben isn’t hitting up New Jersey until March. By the time Luke sees the kid next, he’ll have picked up a new language or something, learned how to strip an engine, found Luke a dream guy, figured out what essential part is missing in him.

Kid’s twenty-one. When Luke was twenty-one, he was just more of the same, but legal when they hit the States. Whatever Ben’s got in him, it’s skipped over the rest of the Morris clan.

Luke catches Vicki in a hug before she can escape to bed, and she rolls her eyes at him but hugs him back, a response that he’s already used to, from her, one he’s already fond of, the eye-rolling of younger siblings anywhere, he knows it from his own bratty sisters. Not Ben, but Ben’s a fucking saint. 

Ben calls him a cab and then waits outside with him for it, shivering in an Oilers hoodie, wearing moccasins instead of something proper, until Luke rolls his eyes and tucks him under his arm, because the kid is smart but doesn’t have any sense.

“Anyone special?” Ben asks, and can’t hide the way his voice gets hopeful.

“Nobody at all,” Luke says, and he doesn’t think he has to tell Ben that’s better than a whole hell of a lot of alternatives, but Ben slumps against him regardless.

Luke’s tried and failed to shoo Ben inside a couple times by the time the cab finally pulls up, but he doesn’t listen, so he’s practically an icicle by the time Luke lets him go, temple cold against Luke’s lips when he lays a kiss on it. 

Luke makes sure Ben’s inside before he gives the cabbie directions, because he’s still technically the big brother and it’s sort of his job. Also because it takes him that long to run through the clubs that might be open, the crowd they’d have on a Thursday night, the likelihood of getting someone on their knees on a sticky floor.

Ends up giving the hotel address instead, is in bed like a good little boy, like the kind of guy who would make Ben proud. It isn’t a good feeling, but it could be worse.


	8. Mike/Liam; snowed in

"Power’s out," Liam says, sounding like he’s somewhere in the living room.

"What tipped you off?" Mike asks, rummaging blindly through the junk drawer for that stupid fucking pocket flashlight Liam got for his ‘man cabin’. At least it’s finally going to get some use.

He’s already sick as shit of this house, the bitch of a blizzard coming in two days ago. Snow’s drifted halfway up their door, and there’s sure as hell no getting out, right now. He doesn’t leave the house all that much, but he’d like the option. More than that, he’d fucking love it if Liam had the option, because Liam’s just about bouncing off the walls by now, and Mike is increasingly likely to strangle him by the fucking hour. No more power is not going to make him killing Liam any less likely.

He finally gets his hand around something slim and metallic, and the light the shitty flashlight puts out is hardly deserving of the name, but at least he can use it to find one of the decent ones in the garage. And start a fucking fire, shit, the last thing they needed in a goddamn snowstorm was the heat crapping out.

"Hey," Mike says, the thin beam of light just glancing off Liam’s cheekbone, where he’s sitting on the couch, all sulky and agitated, like he’s been since he realised he couldn’t go out and play in the fucking snow. "Go get all the blankets, I’m going to make a fire." Thank god for small mercies and Liam’s insistence on getting an older house with a working fireplace. 

Liam brightens up. “Are we making a blanket fort?”

Mike just can’t. He can’t with this fucking brat. “We’re trying not to freeze to death,” he says.

"Blanket fort!" Liam says, wandering off to the bedroom, more cheerful than he’s been since yesterday, and Mike grinds his teeth and goes to find a flashlight that isn’t so fucking pathetic.


	9. Dan/Marc; childhood friends AU

When the moving truck came with two little boys, one barely toddling, and boring, but one that looked around Dan’s age, he was beside himself with excitement. None of his friends lived on his street, none close enough that he couldn’t go to their houses without his dad driving him, or his mom walking him there and back, and Dan had waved wildly at the blond boy from the porch, who had smiled and waved shyly back.

His mom went over that afternoon, and came back telling Dan gently that the boy, Marc, didn’t speak any English yet, that they were from Quebec, that he wouldn’t understand anything Dan said, not for a little while yet, and it was stupid to feel like crying then, Sarah said so, said he probably wouldn’t have liked Dan anyway, and Dan’s mom sent her to her room and told Dan it was okay to feel sad about it, but Sarah was right, it was stupid.

He didn’t see Marc much at first, just sometimes, coming in and out with his parents and his little brother, but on a hot, quiet day when Dan’s dad parked the car on the street so Dan could take the net out, Marc was sitting on the porch with a book that looked hard, looked like the kind of books that Sarah read, and she was eight. He kept looking up, though, at where Dan was shooting, trying to go backhand, which was way harder than it looked. He kept ducking his head when Dan looked back, but every time Dan looked up again he was watching, and it was boring when you couldn’t shoot on anyone, when no one was trying to take the ball from you, so Dan walked up to the porch, feeling shy, Marc’s mom smiling at him when he stood at the bottom of the stairs.

"Hockey?" he asked, clutching at his stick, hoping you didn’t need English to know. He didn’t think you did, there were tons of French players, even a few on the Leafs, and even two French teams.

Marc grinned wide. He was missing his two front teeth, and Dan was kind of jealous, because Sarah told him that meant you were growing up, and Dan hadn’t lost any yet, so that meant he was a baby. 

"Hockey," he said. It sounded different, the way he said it, not like English at all, but still like he knew what Dan meant.

"Do you want to play with me?" Dan asked, and Marc’s mom said something to him in French that made him smile even wider.

"Yes," Marc said, running back inside his house, and Dan waited, upset, because maybe yes meant no in French, until Marc came running out with a stick of his own, a good one, wood, not like the plastic toys some of Dan’s friends played with, a real one, like Dan’s.

"I’ll be goalie first," Dan said, beaming at him, and once he got into position it didn’t matter if Marc understood English or not, because this they both understood.


	10. Mike/Liam; accidental baby acquisition

"No," Mike says.

Liam totally ignores him, continuing to fawn over the screaming bundle in his arms. Maybe he can’t even hear Mike. Maybe he’s been deafened by the fucking thing.

"No," Mike repeats, louder, kind of desperate.

Liam coos a little, and then sticks his pinkie in the baby’s mouth, which is fucking gross, but shuts it up at least. Mike glares at Liam, and then the baby, and the baby stares back at him placidly, sucking at Liam’s pinkie, all content, like it hadn’t been trying to shred his eardrums a second ago. 

"Put it back where it came from," Mike says.

Liam rolls his eyes at him, looks back down at the baby, fond-looking, the way he always gets when there are kids around, Mike’s complete opposite. Mike can handle it when it’s his nephew, because he _has_ to deal with his nephew, but this baby isn’t blood, so no fucking way. 

"I’m babysitting," Liam says, patiently, like Mike is the one being ridiculous. 

"No fucking way," Mike says.

"It’s three hours," Liam says. "It’s Hernandez’s anniversary."

Mike glares.

"Are you afraid of the baby?" Liam asks, soft, sympathetic sounding, which means he’s currently mocking the shit out of Mike. "Is Big Bad Brouwer afraid of babies?"

Mike glares harder.

"Want to hold her?" Liam asks, reaching towards Mike, and Mike takes an instinctive step back. It’s not fear. He’s not afraid of babies. He just doesn’t like them. And they don’t like him. And that’s fine.

"Yes he is," Liam says, sing-song, to the baby. "He’s afraid of you."

"I will fucking kill you," Mike grits out, and strategically retreats.


	11. Dan/Marc/Ulf; high school AU

It’s not that Dan hates Ulf Larsson. He doesn’t. It’s just that Larsson came from Sweden a month ago, with his perfect hair and his perfect face and his interest in stupid, boring movies that Marc likes, and stupid, boring books that Marc likes, and since then, Marc’s been too busy with his super hot new best friend to spend any time with Dan. It’s just that he came, and he got a spot on the team, coach so excited to have a real live _Swede_ , and Dan got knocked down because Larsson’s just perfect for the third line, isn’t he, and every time Marc says anything to Dan now it’s about him, and at the party post-game Saturday, Marc’s practically glued to Larsson’s side, laughing at something he’s saying, cheeks pink and flushed because he’s a little tipsy, and not minding Larsson in his space even though it usually bugs him if it’s anyone but Dan. 

Okay, Dan hates Ulf Larsson.

And he hates him more than he’s hated anyone when someone’s girlfriend ropes everyone into playing spin the bottle, and everyone’s just drunk enough to agree, even if it’s more guys than girls, and Larsson spins and gets Marc, who is still pink and smiling and who leans into Larsson first, puts a hand on Larsson’s thigh to steady himself when he leans in to kiss him. Dan can see a flash of tongue, and Marc only pulls back after a minute, even pinker, laughing a little self-consciously, and Dan doesn’t know if he wants to break something or cry, but he doesn’t want to be at this fucking party anymore. He can’t leave right now though, that’d be obvious, even Marc might notice, and Marc never notices anything like that, especially not with his new best friend, new boyfriend, maybe, Dan doesn’t know.

When his turn comes around, he spins the bottle a little viciously, and it lands on Larsson because Dan’s entire life is terrible. Larsson crawls across the circle to him when Dan doesn’t move, and he’s really, really hot, Dan knows this, he does, he should be a little happier to be kissing a hot guy, but really he just wants to kiss Marc, and Larsson just got to do that, and Marc clearly liked it, and he hates him, he does.

Larsson doesn’t waste any time, puts a hand on Dan’s jaw and leans in. He’s a good kisser, Dan can tell, even if he’s barely responding, no wonder Marc was blushing, Dan can feel the heat rising when Larsson grazes his bottom lip with his teeth, and he doesn’t even like him. Larsson pulls back, lips brushing against Dan’s one last time, before he leans in to speak directly into his ear.

"You’re both idiots," he says, quiet, so only Dan can hear, and Dan stiffens. "He’s pretty much in love with you."

He pulls back then, rolls his eyes at Dan, and looks over at Marc, who’s red, still, but who has his hands in fists and looks dimly furious, even more so when Larsson leans back in to brush his lips against Dan’s again, which has some of the girls giggling and at least a few of the guys loudly complaining. 

Larsson pulls back completely then, looking kind of smug, but Dan barely notices, caught up in the stubborn tilt of Marc’s chin, the way he’s pointedly not looking at either of them. What that might mean.

He may not hate Ulf Larsson. Jury’s out on that one.


	12. Sven Olsen/Yvette Gagnon; handcuffed together

Yvette may be from Gatineau, but she’s pretty sure that, on the other side of the river, it isn’t a bachelor party custom to handcuff you to your fiance. To, in fact, specifically stage a loud cross-provincial border takeover of a bachelorette party, and then handcuff you to your fiance. Someone in her party snitched about her location. Sven’s sister is looking unrepentant.

Gerard is only confirming her suspicion with an awkward, stuttering apology, aimed partly at Sven but mostly at her, because he’s smart, half in English half in French, looking more flustered than she’s ever seen him, and she once walked in on him and Sven wrestling half-naked over a remote. “It was Carruthers’ idea,” he ends, weakly. “He had the rookies. They had power in numbers. I couldn’t stop them.”

"Is there a key?" Yvette asks. It’s not that she minds Sven’s presence, obviously, but there were going to be male strippers. There _will_ be male strippers, even if the entirety of the Ottawa Senators have to watch them. She will have her strippers. It’s just best they aren’t there as well. She suspects it’d scar the rookies, and Sven likes the rookies, most of the time. 

"Oui," Gerard says, drawn out.

"Is the key presently here?" she clarifies.

Gerard looks at his shoes.

"You are a terrible best man," she says, but gently.

"Je sais," Gerard mumbles.

She can tell by the line of Sven’s mouth he’s about to laugh, and knocks her elbow into his side so he schools his face. It’s best not to encourage the rookies, and they’re looking on avidly. She teaches elementary school, and she’s found, so far, that the principle is fundamentally the same.

"There will be male strippers in this room in fifteen minutes," she says, addressing the rookies. "If you find the key in that time, you will be able to leave. If you do not, I will have Gerard bar the door himself."

The rookies start looking shifty.

"Your time starts now," she says, and they scatter.

Sven turns his face into her hair so he can hide his grin. “You’re amazing,” he says, quiet.

"I know," Yvette agrees, and squeezes his hand.


	13. Mike/Liam; bodyswap

"Okay," Mike says. "This is now incredibly fucking uncomfortable for me."

Not that he _minds_ Liam’s attraction to him, it would be fair to say it’s the exact opposite, but this is fucking weird. He did not expect to spend today watching him fondle himself with a look like a kid on Christmas. He doesn’t think he’s ever even seen that look on his face before. He doesn’t think that expression has ever _been_ there. “Stop that,” he says irritably.

Liam pouts, and that expression has _definitely_ never been on Mike’s face.

"You’re giving me frown lines," he says, sulkily. 

"You’re giving me a migraine," Mike retorts.

"If we don’t get kinky sex out of this, then what’s the point?" Liam asks, which. Fair, Mike guesses. Except for the fact he’s the one who has to look at himself in this situation, and let’s be crystal fucking clear: Liam is the prize in this relationship. Not relationship. Whatever, Mike’s too tired for this shit. He’d say too old, but he’s currently in a twenty-five year old’s body, so.

"I wonder if you could hold me down," Liam says, idle.

"Probably not," Mike says. "Look at me."

Liam smacks him. It fucking _hurts_. 

"Shit, sorry," Liam says, when Mike winces. "I forgot about the super strength."

Sometimes Mike truly wonders about the kid. Especially now, with Liam’s hands starting to wander again.

"Hey," Mike snaps. "Stop jerking me off."

Well, that’s something he never thought he’d say in a thousand fucking years. 

Today fucking sucks.

*

Mike puts his foot down on penetration. It’s just fucking weird either way, either he’s fucking himself, or he’s getting fucked by himself, and seriously, no. Liam mumbles something about boring hang-ups, but Mike generously pretends he didn’t hear him.

"I’m blowing you though," Liam says, determined sounding. "It’ll be awesome, I’ll blow your mind."

"You’re a fucking narcissist," Mike says, but he’s curious, now. Liam gets off on being oversensitive, something Mike’s never enjoyed, pleasure pushing in too sharp, going brittle. He’s always wondered if it felt different for Liam, better, or maybe the same, and he just liked it that way, liked it when it was just a little too much. Mike gets the impulse, he’s never minded it rough, but that kind of pain’s different than what it must be like when Mike’s got Liam’s come still wet on his lips and he won’t stop until Liam’s shaking under him, getting hard again, looking unsure of whether he wants to haul Mike off or push himself into Mike’s throat.

"Eh?" Liam says, looking hopeful.

"Yeah, fine," Mike says.

"You’re such a giver," Liam says, solemn, and Mike pinches him in the side, below the ribs, right where he knows it hurts the most. Liam yelps.

Mike stares at him. “I didn’t know I could make that noise.”

"You learn something new every day, sweetheart," Liam says, and muscles Mike down before he can pinch him again. 

*

It was one thing for the fucking ridiculous swap in bodies to happen. It was annoying the first day, infuriating the second, but when he started to see the tell-tale pinch between his eyebrows, the grimace, he was so fucking angry with the universe he could scream. He wouldn’t wish the migraines on anyone, honestly, not the biggest assholes, and Liam least of all. In the most fleeting, self-pitying moments, he’d wished Liam actually understood a fucking fraction of it, but he doesn’t want that, he takes it back. The sight of Liam in pain has never failed to leave him helplessly furious, and he couldn’t do anything about it this time,it was his own fucking body that was turning on Liam.

"Hey," Mike says, wrapped a hand around Liam’s wrist, under the watch Liam had given him last year. It was easier to touch him like this, or at least easier to touch him in the little, fleeting ways Liam always did, like being in Liam’s body gave him permission. "Hit the sack, I’ll get you some pills."

Liam’s jaw—his jaw—is tight. “This a migraine?” he asks.

Mike can’t help but huff a laugh at the thought, completely humorless. “Not yet,” he says.


	14. Dan/Marc; road trip

Every single time they do the drive to Toronto, Dan wonders why they don’t fly. Of course, every time they fly he wonders why they don’t drive. He’s pretty sure there is no good way to transport a seven year old and a four year old, but a man can dream.

"Charlotte," Marc snaps. "Arrêt.”

Charlie freezes in the act of stealing Leon’s goldfish, caught, looking sort of frightened, because Marc hadn’t even been looking in her direction. Dan’s mouth twitches, and Marc looks quite pleased with himself. Charlie’s more than used to Dan seemingly psychically knowing things (she’s got a guilty face, it makes Dan’s life infinitely easier), but Marc catching her at things is still not something she’s used to. Dan figures another year of retirement and Marc will be better than him at it; he’s better at that stuff. 

"I want goldfish," Charlie says, sulky.

"En français,” Marc says, at the same time Dan mildly says, “You said you didn’t want goldfish, that’s why we packed you other things.”

Charlie’s been flat out refusing to speak French for no reason Dan can determine, other than maybe because it clearly pains Marc, and she’s going through an extra rebellious phase. 

"I want goldfish," Charlie repeats, dark. "And I hate French, it’s stupid."

"Charlotte," Marc says.

"And I hate _you_ ,” Charlie says. 

Well, they made it a hundred kilometres without declarations of hate. Dan guesses he should consider himself lucky.

"Who’s excited to see grandma and grandpa?" Dan asks loudly, forestalling whatever Marc’s about to say, mouth tight and furious.

"I am!" Leon chirps.

God bless Leon, he’s the only good one Dan has.


	15. Sens ensemble; truth or dare

It’s Carruthers’ fault.

It seems kind of pointless to say that, because Dan’s sitting on a bed cross-legged, in a loose circle of guys of various drunkeness, playing shit he hasn’t played since high school, so of course it’s Carruther’s fault. Who else’s would it be?

It’s kind of a ridiculous game to play with people you spend half your life with, because there are dares daily, usually for small amounts of cash or bragging rights, and they all know way too much about each other already, but for some reason when Andy and a few of the rookies started to complain, Olsen put his foot down and called it a ‘bonding activity’, so now it’s mandatory team bonding. The rookies are all sulking, because none of them have been drinking, and Andy’s trying to hide as much as his body behind Dan as possible, obviously having figured out that Derek would betray him to the game, but everyone else has taken to it, especially after Leon had to sprint down the hotel hallway in nothing but his socks. It’s a really good thing it’s mostly Sens on this hallway.

Derek picks Dan the second he can, probably because Bowie’s chosen to use Dan as a shield and Carruthers makes Marc look totally non-possessive in comparison. Dan considers. It’s mostly been ‘do something idiotic or tell me about your sex life’, so far. The naked running around has been a trend, and they’re in Regina, there’s no way he’s willingly subjecting his balls to -30. 

"Truth," Dan says, finally, and Carruthers looks deeply disappointed for a minute, which just confirms Dan’s suspicion he’d be running out into Saskatchewan freeze, and then perks up immediately, which is a terrible, terrible sign.

"So," he says, all drawn out, practically a drawl. 

"Sorry," Bowie mumbles against Dan’s back in advance, which does not help the feeling of foreboding.

"If you ask anything about Marc he doesn’t want you to know he’ll come and kill you himself," Dan says, honestly. "Your call."

Derek slumps. Marc personally gave Carruthers a snow shower when he was down the last time they played, and that was just for being Carruthers. Dan knows he’ll make the right choice.

"Why are you the worst?" Derek mutters.

"Was that a question?" Dan asks, looking over at Olsen, who shrugs and then nods assent."That was totally my question."

"He’s going to come for you when you least expect it," Andy says, sort of fretful.

"Bring it," Dan says.


	16. Sarah/Tremblay; telepathy AU

It’s kind of a relief that Tremblay thinks in French, because Sarah suspects it’s better she doesn’t know. Not that she’s shocked by much, or, well, anything, but she kind of likes Tremblay, despite herself, and she really, really doesn’t want a peek inside his head. It’d be elucidating. In a bad way.

Sarah’s telepathy isn’t something she can count on, there doesn’t seem to be any reason to who she can actually read, other than maybe that it’s sometimes someone she’d actually be interested in fucking, which never lasts, once she accidentally wanders into their head. Her brain’s kind of an asshole that way.

But Tremblay thinks in French, with the exception of stuttering bursts of English when he’s trying to think something through before saying it, so she has weird feedback, hearing what he’s going to say just before it comes out of his mouth. Other than that, it’s white noise, easy to tune out, so she can focus mostly on his face, which is so expressive she can practically read his mind just looking at him, anyway, and his hands, which tend to be in movement when he’s switched to French, throwing some mocking sounding string of words at Marc, and are unnaturally still, in comparison, when he’s speaking English, at the way his muscles shift under his dress shirt, which clearly wasn’t made for an athlete’s body. She’s grateful to the shirt. She loves the shirt.

She gets a flash from Dan, just a flash, never more, thank god, a drunken stream of horrified little brotherness, which makes her feel kind of fond, but Tremblay is hot, and she’s drunk, and her brother may have just won a Cup, but so did Tremblay, and it’s not bros to cock-block. 

She nudges Marc, just a little, doesn’t even have to put the thought in his head because he’s always thinking about Dan, it’s nauseating. Nudges just enough that he goes to intercept Dan before he gets some heroic little brother ideas.

"Hey," she says. "Want to get out of here?"

Tremblay’s immediate thoughts are pretty much gibberish to her—high school French was a long, long time ago—but his smile is all the answer she needs.


	17. Mike/Liam; Christmas

I don’t see why you insist on hosting this every fucking year,” Mike says.

“Do you really want to drive out to Duluth?” Liam asks. “And eat your mom’s cooking? And sleep on the fold-out couch? Because you bitch _every time._ ”

Mike glowers at him, and then turns to stab at the coffee machine with a finger.

“Stop sulking,” Liam says. “You have to help me with the tree.”

“The tree’s fine,” Mike mutters.

“The tree needs decorating,” Liam says. “And you’re going to do it with me, and you’re going to like it, because your mom is going to feel sorry for me if she comes to find a bare tree, and then she’ll be disappointed in you.”

Mike mutters something under his breath, even he doesn’t fucking know what he’s muttering, but Liam just says “Buck up, you baby,” and smacks him on the ass before leaving the kitchen.

Mike dimly misses when Liam was even remotely afraid of him. That was nice.

*

The tree gets fucking trimmed, and the gifts pile up under it, more shit than Mike even knew was there, because Liam goes on Christmas shopping binges and then wraps them in, like, the dead of fucking night or something so Mike doesn’t find out what he got. The 23rd Liam’s got a game, home, at least, and that leaves Mike bitterly cursing over wrapping paper, listening with half an ear to the radio broadcast of the game, resisting the urge to just throw Liam’s gifts under the tree unwrapped. Mike’s asleep when Liam gets in, but he wakes up when Liam tucks his freezing face into his throat, his freezing toes against Mike’s shins, and says, delightedly, “You wrapped presents,”

“Fuck off,” Mike groans, and Liam wriggles in closer against him, all frozen extremities and Mike hauls him in, tucked under his chin, so he’ll stay fucking _still._

*

His mom comes in the morning of Christmas Eve, tries to help Mike in the kitchen until Mike is prepared to hip check her right out of there, considering her cooking skills make Liam’s look respectable, but Liam thankfully draws her out with talk of what they got Sam (this is news to Mike), and whether Sam will like it, seven’s a tough age, leaving Mike in peace with his sugar cookies. They’re not in Christmas shapes, though, Mike draws the fucking line at snowmen and trees.

Tom’s family comes in early afternoon, and any quiet Mike may have enjoyed is gone, Sam stampeding around the house, begging Liam to come make a snowman with him outside, asking if they can play mini-sticks in the basement, telling him his goal was super great, he wasn’t supposed to stay up late but his mom let him because Liam was playing and there was no school the next day, Liam could show him his goal, oh wait, can they make Christmas cards, Sam hasn’t made one for his dad yet. Amber wanders into the kitchen after awhile, asking if she can help out, and Mike lets her handle prep, because she talks a lot, but in the way Liam does, with no expectation of acknowledgement, and she’s less likely to lose a finger than anyone else in this house.

Amber’s chattering about Sam’s grades (and who fucking grades a seven year old, anyway?), when Tom comes in, clapping a hand against Mike’s shoulder than going straight to the fridge for a beer. “Your boyfriend never shuts up,” he says, almost cheerful, and Mike gives him a look, because Amber hasn’t even taken a _breath._

Tom rolls his eyes, either at Mike or Amber or both, then filches two cookies before he leaves the room.

“Let Sam have one of those,” Amber calls out behind him, and then, without taking a breath _again_ (Mike is unwillingly impressed), goes back to Sam’s troubles with spelling.

*

Dinner’s simple enough, the majority of the work in the kitchen that day having been done to lay the groundwork for Christmas dinner, and everyone always content to gorge themselves on cookies and beer or wine the night before. Liam has a glass of red, has recently decided it’s the grown-up thing to do, or some bullshit, and it stains his lips dark, which Mike blames for the way he keeps getting drawn to it while Liam and Tom are bickering in front of the fireplace about the best way to get a good fire going.

They’re all in bed early, Liam sneaking down (and promptly stubbing his toe and swearing loud enough that Mike can hear it from their room) to put the presents from ‘Santa’ under the tree, apparently running into Amber, doing the same, as well as hanging stockings, before he returns.

“Ready to be up for six?” Liam murmurs against the hinge of Mike’s jaw.

“No,” Mike says. “The kid can wait.”

“It’s Christmas,” Liam wheedles. He’s such an only child. “You have to make pancakes.”

“I don’t have to make anything,” Mike says, but mentally prepares himself for early morning, his fingers idly running through Liam’s hair as he appreciates, for the moment, the silence of the house around them.


	18. Dan/Marc; Christmas with baby

Dan has had three hours of sleep in the last twenty-four hours when he’s meant to be entertaining guests. Marc’s in Philadelphia, not due back until tomorrow, but someone had the brilliant idea of inviting family early. It was probably Dan. Sleep-deprivation is really terrible for decision making.

Except it’s suddenly the greatest thing in the world because his mom takes one look at him when he answers the door then takes a wailing Charlotte out of his arms and tells him to go get some sleep. He doesn’t argue, he is never going to argue the option of more sleep for the rest of his life, he thinks, and just stumbles back up to bed, wakes up four hours later to find his living room a lot more full than he remembered it being, his parents and Marc’s chatting while Charlotte contentedly sucks on a bottle in Marc’s mother’s arms.

It’s then that Dan realises he’s wearing just boxers and one of his old Sens shirts, so he retreats, manages to summon the mental strength for jeans, and then wanders back down to the living room, sitting down beside his dad, even though his hands are practically twitching, he so badly wants to take Charlotte out of her grandmother’s arms and get her back into his own.

“You can go back up, honey,” Dan’s mom says, “Your dad has food in the oven and we found your wine, why don’t you get some more sleep? We’ve all done this before.”

“Okay,” Dan says, but makes eyes at Charlotte, her eyes half closed as she contentedly sucks, her tiny fingers twitching.

Marc’s mom must take pity on him for once, because she comes over and deposits Charlotte into Dan’s arms, so he can let her small hand wrap around his index finger, press his lips to her downy-soft forehead, while she sedates herself with the bottle. She’s only taken from him when he starts falling asleep again, so used to snatching sleep when he can, and Dan’s mom practically guides him back to bed, where he kicks out of his jeans and goes back to sleep.

He wakes up to a baby’s fussy cries and Marc’s frantic shushing, both familiar sounds, opens his eyes to find Marc with Charlotte against his chest, still in his travel suit.

“She’ll spit up on you,” Dan warns. It’s like a law. The nicer the thing you’re wearing, the more likely Charlotte’s going to puke on you.

“Shit, sorry,” Marc said. “I did not mean to wake you.”

“How long have I been sleeping?” Dan asks, reaching out for Charlotte, securing her in his arms while Marc gets up, strips out of his suit.

“Your mother arrived eighteen hours ago. They took Charlotte to my parents’ house so you could sleep,” Marc says, and Dan blinks, slow.

“Seriously?” he says. “Why’d they let me sleep so long?”

“Pft,” Marc says, clear even when he’s pulling his undershirt over his head. “They got to spend time with their grand-daughter, they loved it.”

Charlie’s quieted now, just blinks up at him with big blue eyes, the exact same colour as Marc’s. Not as judging, yet, but Dan figures she just needs time. Three months is a little early.

“Hi,” Dan whispers. “Did you miss me?”

She blinks again, slower. Dan takes that as a yes.

Marc crawls back into bed, down to his briefs. “Charlotte,” he says, demanding, and Dan hands her back, because Marc’s been on a four-game roadtrip, and had reached the point where he’d made Dan put the phone near Charlotte so he could hear any noises she made, not that she’s interested in making many when it doesn’t involve crying.

Marc settles with his back against the headboard, and Dan lies down, leans his head half against his pillow, half against the bony line of Marc’s hip, the warmth of his side.

“S’the plan?” he asks, already half asleep, even though it made no logical sense, after having slept as long as he did.

“Sarah is arriving tomorrow,” Marc says, almost sing-song, his voice a lullaby for both Charlotte and Dan. “My mother and your father are fighting over control of the kitchen. Your mom cleaned while you were sleeping, I assume, the place looks nice. Everything is decided, you just rest.”

Dan makes a vaguely assenting noise, and Marc shifts, enough to displace Dan’s cheek, which Dan grumbles at, but then he’s laying Charlie on his chest, palm anchoring her body while he rubs his thumb over Dan’s cheekbone. “It is good to be home,” he says, soft, and Dan turns to press a kiss against the skin exposed over the waistband of his briefs, drifts with Marc’s skin warm against his cheek and the powdery, milky baby smell of Charlotte lulling him to sleep.


	19. Andy/Derek; Christmas

Andy’s pretty sure the only reason he doesn’t stagger when three children fling themselves at him is because he’s used to bracing himself for checks. It’s pure instinct to brace himself now, so he catches the blur he thinks might be Nathalie, judging from the braids flying, while Kai narrowly avoids headbutting him in the dick. He thinks Sadie’s the one sitting on his foot.

Derek, who’d insisted on Andy going in first, just laughs at him, keeps laughing at him when he’s bending down to scoop up Matthew, who’s slowly toddled his way over and looks like he’s feeling left out. Andy shifts Nathalie to his hip.

“Okay,” Derek says. “That’s four terrors, where are the rest?”

“In the backyard,” Kai tells Andy’s thigh. “They’re making a fort. They said we were too little to help.”

Maria comes into the hallway, not even bothering to muffle her laugh when she sees three of her grandchildren attached to Andy.

“Mama,” Derek says. “The big kids are picking on the little kids!”

Maria rolls her eyes. “Just wait until your siblings realise you’re here, then you’ll see the big kids pick on the little kids.”

Andy can’t turn to look at Derek’s face without getting a mouthful of Nathalie’s braid, but he is almost 100% sure he’s pouting, and that’s confirmed when Maria says, “Don’t make that face at me, mijo, you start it half the time.”

“Only half,” Derek whines.

“Do you need some help, Andy?” Maria asks.

“Yes please,” Andy says. They’ve still got presents to bring in, and Derek’s not going to do it, now that he’s got a toddler to play with.

“Is that Derek and Andy?” Adam calls out, coming into the hall. “How’d you get up there, jellybean?” he asks Nathalie. “That’s like climbing a tree.”

“I jumped!” Nathalie says, squirming in Andy’s arms so she can look at her dad, and it’s all Andy can do to hold on. “Way up high!”

“Very high,” Adam agrees. “How’re you holding up, Andy?” He has the tact not to laugh at Andy, probably because Nathalie would think it was at her, feelings always so easily hurt, but his mouth’s twitching.

Kai’s fingers are digging into Andy’s thigh through his jeans, his foot’s going numb under Sadie, who seems to have found her fun in playing with Andy’s boot laces, and Nathalie’s getting heavier by the second.

“I’m good,” Andy says, then tucks his smile into Nathalie’s fine soft hair.


	20. Luke & Ben; a Morris family Christmas

They’ve been doing the same thing Christmas morning as long as Luke can remember. Doesn’t think that’s ever going to end, he’ll be forty and still returning to this old house, sleeping in his old bed, creaking under his weight, Oilers posters fraying on the walls because his parents wouldn’t let him remove them, even after he was drafted to the Flames, keep everything in their rooms the same, like they just grew up a minute ago, even if everything looks old, washed out, same as Luke feels whenever he stays in his room, a shrine to him before he fucked everything up.

Holly gets out of it this year, six months pregnant and getting to sleep at home in a real bed before she comes in for the morning, but she lives ten minutes away from their parents, and Luke wouldn’t wish that on anyone, loves them, but is really fucking glad to be hours away. Katie ran the furthest, all the way down to Toronto, but she’s still asleep in the next room, because none of them miss Christmas, Luke’s travelled the seven hours on no sleep because he had a game the 23rd, but he hasn’t missed Christmas.

This time he picked Ben up on the way, the kid nearly tipping under the weight of the presents he bought with the money a new, non-entry level contract could buy, half of them, it looks like, to Holly’s fetus, filling Luke’s trunk, before he promptly fell asleep in the passenger seat, mouth ajar, the worst navigator in the world, though Luke could probably navigate home in his sleep. Worst company, then, but Luke isn’t inclined to wake him, because this year Ben was the one playing on the 23rd and then promptly getting in a car because you just don’t miss Christmas Eve.

Next year there’ll be a baby, and even if Ben’s the baby of their house, he’ll probably follow soon after, him and Vicki so nauseatingly sweet, and it’ll be more like the Christmases Luke remembers, Katie and Holly bickering over who got to open first, older or younger, and Ben falling asleep in their mom’s lap, thumb in his mouth, even presents not enough to make up for waking up at five in the morning. Luke eyeing the hockey stick shaped present and hoping that they got him graphite.

Luke doesn’t sleep well, the mattress thin, the house creaking around him, but he’s still up at five like everyone else, though instead of gathering around the Christmas tree, they all huddle around the coffee-maker and wait for its gifts. Holly comes blowing in at five-fifteen along with her sleepy, grumpy looking husband, who Luke can fully relate to as he clutches his mug like a lifeline.

Ben’s almost falling asleep into his own mug, tucked into a ball on the couch, wearing reindeer flannel pyjama bottoms, which Luke and Holly and Katie will all mock him once the coffee’s kicked in, but right now Luke just finds it kind of cute. Eternally a baby brother, apparently.

He can smell eggs in the kitchen over the too bitter coffee, which means he gets at least a few minutes more to shut his eyes, so he wanders over to the couch, shoves his way between Katie and Ben, who barely protest, leaning into Katie, who pushes him off, then Ben, who just cuddles back into him, and tries to catch five minutes before the morning truly comes.


	21. Gabe/Stephen; home for the holidays

The first year Gabe plays in the NHL, he almost doesn’t come home over the holiday break. It’s a pretty short one, only four days, he’d seen his parents two weeks before, when they’d taken time off to come to Vancouver for a week during a homestand, the airports were going to be insane, and it wasn’t like Christmas was anything special, they’d probably check out a movie opening that day and get Chinese for dinner, the typical Markson Christmas Extravaganza. But Stephen’s already back in T.O., had a much more generous six day break, and Gabe hasn’t had a chance to see him since the season started, hasn’t seen Anouk and Johan and the terrible twosome in even longer, and the thought of chilling in Vancouver for the break, his teammates all busy with family or flying somewhere themselves, it’s just a little too depressing, so he books a flight at the last minute, first class because that’s the only seating available, which at least makes it easier to nap on the plane.

He told his parents when he booked it, so they’re there to pick him up, ignoring his insistence that he could take a cab, and his mom goes out with him that evening through the insane Christmas Eve crowds so he can pick up some things for Elisabeth and Anna, more knowledgeable than he is about whatever new thing they’re interested in (teen fiction about brooding men and Toronto FC, respectively, and since when was eleven teenaged?), and donates a bottle of wine that Anouk and Johan like from their stock, because the liquor store is just not going to happen.

He sleeps in Christmas morning, or as much as he can, his mom waking him up at noon and not looking particularly sympathetic when he points out it’s only nine in his head, and Gabe’s still drowsy when he shoves his Toronto boots on, pulls his Toronto coat on, both waiting for him in the closet like he still lives there, before slogging through a path of fresh snow over to the Petersens.

Anouk’s the one who opens the door, looking sort of harried, which is explained pretty well by a shouted argument between Beth and Anna he can hear from outside, but she smiles at Gabe, pulling him inside, up on her toes to kiss him on both cheeks before she divests him of the presents and his coat before he even realises what’s happening. “Stephen didn’t say you were coming home,” she says.

“Stephen doesn’t know,” Gabe says, crouched over his boots, and that’s where Beth and Anna find him, immediately demanding to know what he got them.

“Who says I got you anything?” Gabe asks, and laughs at their matching scowls, tells them to be patient and watches the scowls get even darker, before wandering into the kitchen after Anouk points him over. Stephen’s at the table, bent over some model that Anna probably got, attempting to put it together, and Gabe leans heavily against his back, wraps an arm around his chest.

“Where are my Christmas cookies?” Gabe asks, and Stephen starts under him, trying and failing to crane his neck to see Gabe when Gabe rests his chin on the top of Stephen’s head. He gives up after a second, reaches up to rest his hand on Gabe’s wrist.

“You didn’t say you were coming,” Stephen says, and Gabe can hear the words against his chin.

“I’m mysterious,” Gabe says. “Now where are my cookies, bitch.”

“You have to let me up if you want them,” Stephen says, and Gabe will. In a minute. He’s comfortable like this, with Stephen half in a chokehold, hand loosely curled around Gabe’s wrist, Beth and Anna trying to wheedle the bag of presents out of their mom, Johan warbling some Christmas song from the garage.

“You better have gotten me something awesome,” Stephen says.

“I got you me,” Gabe says. “I’m awesome.”, and Stephen must be in the holiday spirit or something, because he just hums agreement.


	22. Dan/Marc; Christmas with teen

“Where’s my hat?” Charlie yells.

“Sur ta tête,” Marc calls back.

Charlie comes bounding in, glaring at Marc from under her Sens cap, another attempt in her ongoing goal to drive Marc insane. “I know it’s on my head, I meant my _other_ hat,” she snaps.

“Have you checked the mud room?” Marc asks.

“ _Obviously _,” she says.__

__“Check your room, if you can even find anything in that mess. And don’t talk to him like that,” Dan says mildly, stirring milk into his coffee, mouth quirking when Marc reaches out to rub his thumb over the back of his hand._ _

__“ _Ugh_ ,” Charlie says, with all the disgust fourteen can muster, then stomps upstairs._ _

__*_ _

__They don’t get out of the house until almost noon, between Charlie’s insistence she’s not going anywhere without her toque (it’s in her room. On the floor. Under all the mess. Dan, for one, is shocked.), the ongoing sniping between Charlie and Marc, Marc getting snippier and snippier while Charlie definitively proves which of them she takes after (she did not appreciate Leon pointing that out, nor did Marc, but Dan gave him a furtive fistbump because accurate), and Dan’s failed attempts to get all their stuff, plus presents, into the trunk. The roads aren’t great, but they’re not too bad either, and since Charlie shoves her headphones on her head and ignores their collective existence, and Leon falls asleep soon after they get on the highway, the drive isn’t so bad either._ _

__“Have a child,” Marc mutters under his breath. “It will be great.”_ _

__“She totally got the grumpy from you,” Dan says._ _

__Marc glares at him._ _

__“Point proven,” Dan says, and pre-emptively ducks his head before Marc can smack him. “Driving, here!”_ _

__“I hate all of you,” Marc says._ _

__“Hey,” Dan says. “Leon didn’t do anything.”_ _

__“I hate everyone except Leon,” Marc amends._ _

__“See, that’s better,” Dan says. Leon snuffles agreement from the back._ _

__*_ _

__They get into Toronto around dinner and just stop at the Toronto apartment long enough to drop their stuff off before heading to Dan’s parents, because they’re at least an hour later than they were supposed to be. Charlie drops the sullen face long enough give her grandparents hugs and kisses, and latch herself to Sarah, who she idolizes because Sarah's evil. Teaches Dan’s child to be evil right along with her, and there’s nothing Dan can do to stop it._ _

__Dan retreats to the kitchen to watch his dad finish up dinner, listening with one ear to Leon chattering away at Dan’s mom in French, Marc’s slow, dry translation, because sometimes Leon forgets that not everyone speaks French. He forgets enough with Dan, so Dan’s French is getting much better, late in life, simply out of self-preservation and the need to understand what the hell his son’s saying._ _

__“Long drive?” his dad asks, and Dan shrugs. “Kids behaving?” he adds, and Dan punctuates the second shrug with a sigh._ _

__“Beer?” his dad asks._ _

__“You’re the best dad,” Dan says._ _

__“Ah, now you appreciate me,” his dad says._ _

__“Children are evil,” Dan says, poking his head into the fridge and nudging his dad’s ale and the fancy Quebec beer they get for Marc (who just ends up drinking Dan’s instead, because he doesn’t like it much, and is weirdly reluctant to tell them that), to unearth his lager. “Why did you let me have them?”_ _

__“I wanted you to suffer the way I did,” Dan’s dad says, and Dan scowls into the fridge._ _

__“You’re the worst dad,” he amends._ _

__“Children, so fickle,” his dad says lightly, and Dan would smack him, but that’d set a bad example for the kids. Who aren’t even in the room. Shit, Dan is so ready to leave them with their grandparents tomorrow and actually fuck Marc without being furtive about it. It’s going to be awesome._ _

__Charlie comes into the kitchen, eyeing Dan’s beer. “Can I have one?” she asks._ _

__Dan laughs in her face._ _

__“ _God_ ,” she snaps, “you don’t have to be such a _jerk_ about it.” She stomps her way right back out._ _

__“Good age,” Dan’s dad says._ _

__“Ugh,” Dan says, and clutches his beer to him like a lifeline._ _


	23. Sens ensemble; Christmas party

It’s bright and early on a Saturday afternoon, a rare completely free day, and instead of sleeping in or doing his final Christmas shopping (Sarah’s been way harder to buy for ever since Dan couldn’t just buy her books anymore) he’s at a Christmas party. He’s wearing a Santa hat. He doesn’t know who put it on his head, but it was someone’s kid, so he’s just going with it, even though Carruthers keeps telling him he looks like an elf more than anything else, with the way his ears are sticking out under it.

Dan ends up hanging out off the ice, more than willing to let it go for a day, with the ‘single guys’, which is kind of inaccurate, considering Bowman and Carruthers have been trying and failing to be covert about their ‘secret’ relationship for almost a year now, and, judging by the number of complaints and sleepless bags under his eyes, Leon may or may not be sleeping at the foot of the Olsens’ bed to better assist at baby wrangling. Dan’s team is weird.

Coach put out a blanket ban on hockey, since they’re lucky enough have their final game tomorrow, and coach wants them all focused and rested over the break or something, Dan wasn’t paying much attention, mostly because the Habs have a game in Los Angeles during the Sens’ Christmas party. He keeps twitching towards his phone, and stopping himself, though Leon, who’s been checking his phone on and off throughout the day, becomes his favourite when he peers down at his phone, and, without looking up, mumbles “Diver scored, they’re up 3-1,” out of the corner of his mouth, way more successfully furtive than, say, Bowie and Carruthers, who appear to be wrestling for control of the pool cue. But in a snuggly way. Dan knows furtive gay snuggles, okay, he’s had a lot of experience with them.

“Awesome,” Dan mumbles back, eyeing an incoming trainer, wondering if Coach would have employed spies. Probably.

“Yeah, Riley,” Leon says, slipping his phone back into his pocket, eyeing the trainer with the same amount of suspicion. “It’s super awesome that they’re continuing to make us look embarrassing.”

Dan shrugs. Husband scored a goal, he’s allowed to be happy about it unless the goal was scored against them. Olsen said so and everything. He points that out, and Leon sulks a little, because he’s Olsen’s number two for a reason; Dan doesn’t think he’s ever heard Leon contradict an Olsen edict.

“This is nauseating,” Leon says.

“What, those idiots?” Dan asks. Carruthers seems to have won the pool cue, and is now proceeding to poke Bowie in the side with it, which gets a failed stern face and a round of giggles every time.

“Ugh,” Leon says. “Where’s Sven, crying babies are better than this.”

“We’re the worst single guys ever,” Dan says.

“What?” Leon asks, sort of sharp.

“Nothing,” Dan says. “What’s the score now?”

“Shh,” Leon hisses, but still pulls out his phone to check.


	24. Luke; the misadventures of sharing a bed

When Luke is forcibly pushed to awake, it’s with the dual sounds of a shrieking alarm and cursing from the other side of the bed. He doesn’t even need to open his eyes to know it’s still dark out, just groans and shoves his head under the pillow, trying to muffle the noise.

“Sorry, sorry,” he hears, unfortunately not muffled enough, and then the alarm cuts off. He tentatively pokes his head out from under the pillow, eyes still shut, and scowls when he hears Andreas laugh at him.

“Go back to sleep,” Andreas says, and he does, until he’s woken up again by light, opens his eyes to squint at Andreas, or his back, his hair curling around his ears, dripping down his shoulderblades.

“Come back to bed,” Luke croaks, and Andreas turns around, gives him a harried smile.

“Sorry,” he says, “something big’s going down, I’ve got to be there early.”

“Tell your boss I pay his salary,” Luke mutters.

“Yeah,” Andreas says, “That’ll work. ‘Hey, you know the client I’m dating completely against company policy? He said I could put in my overtime with some morning sex.’”

Luke scowls at him.

“That isn’t scary when you have pillow creases on your face,” Andreas says, then, “hey, I do have a suit here, right?”

“You should,” Luke says, giving up and closing his eyes again. “Or just wear one of mine.”

“Not all of us are built like hockey players,” Andreas says. “I think they’d notice.”

“If you would just move in,” Luke says.

“Not a conversation for six in the morning,” Andreas says.

“It’s six?” Luke says. “Jesus, I didn’t get in until two.”

“Told you,” Andreas says, “looks like a pretty major trade’s coming up.”

Luke opens one eye.

“Confidentiality,” Andreas says.

Luke snorts.

Andreas makes a triumphant noise, and Luke takes that as a sign he’s found his suit, lets himself drift off until the bed’s shifting under him, Andreas’ fingers sliding over his arm, careful to skirt around a fresh bruise from the night before.

“Want me to make you a smoothie before I head out, or are you going back to sleep?” Andreas asks.

“Hmm,” Luke hums.

“Yeah, you’re going back to sleep,” Andreas says. “You want me to come by after work?”

“I want you to move in with me,” Luke says, and Andreas presses a kiss against his jaw. Luke can smell his aftershave, and all he wants to do is pull him back into bed, wrap himself around him.

“Ask me when you’re actually awake,” Andreas murmurs, lips brushing Luke’s skin. “And maybe after Dave knows I’m sleeping with you.”

“Dave sucks,” Luke mutters. What kind of agent cockblocks his client? Or relationship blocks, whatever.

“Not arguing right now,” Andreas says drily. “Shit, I’m running late. Tonight?”

“Yeah,” Luke says. “If I’m not home, use your key. Feel free to move in while you’re at it.”

“Idiot,” Andreas says fondly, then pats Luke on the ass (Luke is pretty sure that is also fond, and fondness solely directed towards his ass), before he retreats, turning the light off as he leaves the room.

Luke tries to settle back into sleep, but it’s weird now, quiet, Andreas’ side newly cold and the apartment empty around him.

“Fucking agents,” Luke mutters, and drags himself to the shower to wake up and try to suss out which big shot’s getting his ass traded now.


	25. Andy/Derek; misadventures in lube

To be fair, the best way to bring it up probably isn’t to pause Halo mid-mission and say, “What are your feelings about anal sex?”, choking out the words past general mortification, but it’s been six months, and Derek hasn’t even mentioned it, has let Andy dictate the pace of everything, in bed and out of it. Andy knows he’s had it, Derek’s never been shy about the kiss and tell thing (hopefully that’s not true now, because Andy would die), but so far there’s been nada. Zip. Zilch.

Derek drops his controller in his lap. Okay, there were definitely better ways to bring this up. Like in bed, probably, but Andy’s been trying, and he always ends up pussying out and going for a blowjob or a cuddle, whichever’s more appropriate at the time.

“Good?” Derek says. “They’re good feelings?”

“Is that a question?” Andy snaps, on edge, then immediately feels bad about it.

“I love it when you’re sarcastic,” Derek says. The saddest thing is that he doesn’t even say it sarcastically. He pauses. “I mean, if you’re wondering about—I’ve had no complaints?”

“Awesome,” Andy says. “Was that with the girl who tried to sell pictures of you sleeping or the one who stalked Scotiabank for three weeks?”

“Shut up,” Derek says, sulky, so Andy probably nailed it.

“I just,” Andy says, then pauses, because there’s no good way to say ‘this is simultaneously something I really want and also it freaks me the hell out.’ without having Derek either feel bad or make fun of him. He ducks his head.

“Hey,” Derek says, sort of gentle, so Andy figures it got across anyway. Derek knows him too well. It’s usually useful, but sometimes—now—it’s mortifying. “We’re good, Bowie. If you want to, like—”

He pauses. Andy looks up to find him blushing, which is the weirdest thing.

“Are you blushing?” Andy asks, nudging Derek’s knee with his own.

“You’re blushing,” Derek mutters, which is probably true, and also a bad comeback. “But, like. If you wanted to fuck me, that’d be cool.”

Andy blinks. Derek continues to blush in his general direction.

“Really?” Andy asks. “I thought—”

Derek elbows him hard.

“Ow,” Andy says. “Also ow.”

“You thought I’d be an asshole about it,” Derek says.

“Well,” Andy says, then, “ _Ow_ , how are your elbows this sharp?”

Derek glares at him. “I’m not an asshole.”

“Not to me,” Andy says agreeably.

Derek settles against him. Andy flinches, waiting for more elbow, but Derek seems to be done for the moment.

“You want to?” Derek asks.

“Duh,” Andy says. “I just—you know what you’re doing. I—don’t.”

“I didn’t know what I was doing the first time I gave a blowjob,” Derek says. “And I did okay.”

Andy stays still.

“Andy?” Derek says, craning his neck around. “Right?”

Andy bites his lip.

“Bowie?” Derek says.

Andy bites his lip harder, but can’t help the giggle that bursts out of him.

“Ow, did you just _bite_ me?”

*

“Der?” Andy calls.

“In the kitchen,” Derek calls back.

Andy wanders over, pausing at the kitchen table, which is loaded with groceries that, by the sound of it, Derek is putting away, and then the biggest bottle of lube Andy’s ever seen. He stares at it. It stares back.

“Please tell me you didn’t buy this at Loblaws,” Andy says, without hope.

Derek pokes his head out of the kitchen. “Oh yeah, isn’t it awesome?” Derek asks. “It was on sale.”

Andy nudges at the bottle with one finger. It stands firm. “Does lube expire?” Andy asks. Their sex life isn’t exactly inactive, but this is a bottle of lube for a chafing fourteen year old on his seventh masturbation session of the day. Andy would have killed for this bottle of lube when he was a chafing fourteen year old on session seven.

Derek rolls his eyes at him. “Come help me put the groceries away,” he says. “You can try to hide the quinoa again.”

Andy winces. Busted. He follows Derek into the kitchen, sparing one last look at the bottle of lube that makes for a really weird table centrepiece.

*

“Okay,” Andy says. “Tell me if I’m doing anything wrong. Am I doing anything wrong?”

“Bowie,” Derek says. “Your pants are still on.”

“Yeah?” Andy asks.

“It helps to _take them off_ ,” Derek says.

“Right,” Andy says. “Right, yes. Right. Pants off. I can do that.”

“Andy?” Derek says.

“Yeah?” Andy asks.

“Your pants are still on.”

“You try working a button with lube on your hands. Are you—stop laughing, Carruthers!”


	26. Marc/Dan & Ulf; recurring skype dates

“Honey, I’m home,” Dan says.

“Shh,” Marc hisses.

“Darling, dearest husband, heart of my heart, I’m here to see you after weeks,” Dan snarks.

“You spend too much time with Carruthers,” Marc says.

From his laptop, there’s what sounds suspiciously like Larsson laughing at him. Dan’s pretty familiar with it.

Dan sheds his layers, picking up Marc’s while he’s at it, since they’re a fucking fire hazard, wandering into the living room, where Marc’s attention is caught between some subtitled thing on TV, and his laptop, where he’s got skype open.

“Your skype movie dates are really weird,” Dan says. “Hi Larsson.”

“Shh,” Larsson says.

“Oh come on,” Dan says. “There’s no way either of you understand—is that Russian?”

“Czech,” Marc says.

“I understand it,” pipes up a heavily accented, unfamiliar voice.

Dan blinks and then peers closer at Marc’s laptop.

“Hi little dude with Larsson,” he says.

“I’m not little,” says the little dude, injured sounding.

“Dan, Filip, Filip, Dan,” Marc says. “Now shh.”

Dan rolls his eyes, leaning over the couch to kiss Marc’s forehead, before he goes to the kitchen. He figures Marc’s got some dishes that need doing, and he figures right.

By the time he’s loaded the dishwasher, tidied up the bedroom, and emptied the overflowing trashcans in the kitchen and bathroom, the movie’s over, and so’s the movie skype date. Marc makes grabby hands at him from the couch.

“Now you want to see me,” Dan says, but he sits down, pulls Marc into his chest.

“Hi,” Marc says, bright and unrepentant.

“Hi,” Dan says, presses a kiss against his temple. “Who’s the kid with Larsson?”

“He just got called up,” Marc says. “He has been joining our movie nights.”

“Larsson fucking him?” Dan asks.

Marc rolls his eyes at Dan.

“Not a no,” Dan says.

“Ulf says he is too young,” Marc says.

“Larsson fucked him and now the kid thinks they’re dating and it’s freaking him out?” Dan guesses.

Marc is suspiciously silent.

“Yup,” Dan agrees with himself.

“Hmph,” Marc says, then turns, pulls Dan into a proper kiss.

“No, don’t distract me,” Dan says, half against Marc’s mouth. “Did he wait a whole week before fucking the impressionable rookie, or did he just smile and the kid’s pants fell off?”

“Do you want to hear about Ulf’s sex life or do you want to have sex?” Marc asks.

“But those are often the same thing,” Dan argues, but half-hearted, since Marc is getting up, and it’s his sworn duty to follow Marc wherever he goes. Especially if clothes shedding will be involved.

“Oh, you cleaned the bedroom,” Marc says, sounding pleased.

“Anything for you, dear heart,” Dan says, and doesn’t even need to see Marc’s face to know he’s rolling his eyes at him. 

*

Dan is starting to wonder he’s ever going to actually get a proper hello when he comes in to Montreal. Like, he’s not expecting Marc to throw himself at him, but, you know, less Larsson would be good. Dan likes Larsson, Dan very much appreciates Larsson, both for how he makes Marc happy and also—you know, less emotional reasons—but this scheduling sucks.

“Shh,” Marc says. Dan hasn’t even done anything but open the door.

“I hate both of you,” Dan says, then comes around to glare at Larsson. Larsson is indeed there, looking completely unrepentant (Dan has no idea whether Marc taught him that look or vice versa, but he does not appreciate it from either of them), and is bookended by Filip and another duckling.

“There are three of you now?” Dan asks. “Is this a club?”

“Twenty minute break,” Marc announces.

There’s a chorus of boos coming from skype, along with Larsson’s disbelieving “Twenty minutes? Treat your husband right.”

Marc gives him the finger and then shuts skype off.

“Quickie?” Dan asks hopefully.

“I am hungry,” Marc says. “I do not trust you to make anything.”

“Ouch,” Dan says, without meaning it. It’s a fair statement. Marc wanders off to the kitchen, and Dan follows, leaning his hip against the counter. “What’s with the tag-a-long?”

“Joe Forster,” Marc says. “He heard they were watching art films and he was hurt they were leaving him out.”

“Is he aware he’s being an epic cockblock?” Dan asks.

“Probably not,” Marc says. “I believe Ulf is relieved, however.”

“Poor Filip,” Dan says.

“Filip introduced Ulf to his mother on skype yesterday,” Marc says.

Dan bites his lip.

“Poor Ulf,” Marc says pointedly.

“Beauty has responsibility,” Dan says, very seriously, and then laughs when Marc hipchecks him lightly.

“Risotto?” Marc asks.

“Twenty minute break,” Dan points out.

Marc waves a hand. “For all we know, they are now having a threesome.”

“Point,” Dan says. Larsson tends to bring about threesomes wherever he goes. Dan’s not complaining.

“I did not like the film anyway,” Marc says.

“Ah,” Dan says. “There we go. Marc Riley Lapointe, spending time with his husband because he didn’t like the movie anyway.”

Marc sticks his tongue out at him.

“Very mature,” Dan says. “This makes the drive worthwhile.”

“It does,” Marc says, totally confidently.

“Yeah,” Dan agrees, and reels Marc in, manages an off-centre kiss to his ear before Marc squirms free and starts dinner.


	27. Jake first notices the pretty boy

Chirping’s a national pastime. Jake’s played with enough guys on both sides of the border, from at least a half dozen countries, to know that the boys in red, white and blue do it best, other than maybe Quebeckers, who are vicious. On the ice, but off it too, and everyone forgets their alliances, the Q, the O, the C, whatever, and whatever Canadian teammates who come with it, when they’re in the final stretch and only Canada stands in the way of gold. Guys start swapping stories, nothing too bad, probably not all they know, but enough shit to get under someone’s skin when they’ve got you against the boards: girlfriends’ names, sisters’ names, the fact one guy has to constantly get tutored in math so that he doesn’t lose eligibility by flunking out. One of the Rangers is going to be on the other side of the ice tomorrow, but he’s a nice guy who doesn’t deserve any shit about his deadbeat dad floating around, so Jake keeps his mouth shut and shrugs helplessly when asked.

While there’s the inevitable overlap between guys, the Q is mostly an unknown. Only one of them plays there, and that’s mostly because he’s got dual citizenship and a bunch of French relatives. All Rutledge can really give is approximates, and a scowl when Benson bugs him for specifics, since Team Canada’s first line has two of ‘em, and they’ve been downright dangerous all tournament.

“Fucking pretty boy,” Rutledge says. “Plays pretty too, but he’s got no grit.”

“Pretty boy,” Benson repeats. “You looking at that shit, Rutter?”

Rutledge shoves him. “Last time they came to Gatineau, my girlfriend spent three days talking about his _eyes_.”

Jake snorts, and Rutledge glares at him in turn.

“Are they pretty eyes?” Benson asks, mock earnest, and Rutledge shoves him again.

Jake mostly puts it out of his head, along with the details about everyone else—he isn’t much of a chirper, and he doesn’t think he could be even if he tried, which he doesn’t. He’s got nothing against the strategy or anything, but he’d rather take someone out with his body than his mouth. It feels cleaner. He’ll trash talk if he has to, but even thinking about using some guy’s sister against him makes him feel like his mom and his sisters are glaring at him over his shoulder. And it’s not that guy’s fault he sucks at math.

It’s a hard game, one of inches. Shots inches off the mark, icings won by inches, using the inches he’s got to shove Chapman against the boards and hold him there until a fellow boy in blue can dig the puck out from beneath their feet. But it’s one they win with a goal notched midway through the third that the Canadians never come back from, and Jake’s breathless with it, caught in the press of bodies when everyone’s piling off the bench and onto the ice to join them when time expires. They finally manage to untangle when they’re called over to the handshake line, and Jake skates over, offers a pat on the shoulder to his teammate, who’s avoiding his eyes, in a way Jake doesn’t take personal. Manages to get through half of it, limp handshakes and ones that hurt, like some of them are taking their anger out on Jake’s hand, before he’s in front of the kid Rutledge had scowled about, who notched a goal in the first that they’d scrambled to meet, and then basically disappeared.

He reaches his hand out, expecting another limp handshake, the kind that says he’s only getting touched because the rules say so, but instead it’s another crushing one, like Chapman’s trying to leave bruises. Jake doesn’t wince, even though he wants to, just meets Chapman’s eyes, which are shiny wet like he wants to cry but won’t, and meet his like a challenge, hard and furious, like Jake’s the only reason they lost.

“Good game,” Jake says, quiet, because he’s supposed to and because it was, and Chapman holds onto his hand one more painful second before letting go. It’s in that second that Jake notices that Rutledge—or his girlfriend, whatever—was right. He’s got pretty eyes.


	28. Luke/Andreas; Dividing of goods

It probably says something, nothing good, that when Andreas breaks up with him, Luke’s shocked he doesn’t just grab his stuff and go while Luke’s on a road trip, or spring it on him on game day, or text him or something. Nothing good because Andreas has probably never been that guy in his life, definitely not with Luke, and if Luke needed to feel shittier about this, which he didn’t, the fact he’s surprised by Andreas doing it right, when Andreas always does everything right, is one more thing, a dull ache among the sharper burning.

Andreas doesn’t have a huge amount of shit at Luke’s place—he never succeeded in getting Andreas to move in, not fully, though when Luke was in New York, Andreas was usually at his place, so it didn’t make that much of a difference, in the end, except that Luke wanted him there even when Luke wasn’t, coming home from work, making himself dinner with the day’s sports round-up soft on the kitchen TV and his blackberry on the counter in case it buzzed, because he couldn’t turn off being a workaholic any more than Luke could turn off being a hockey player. Stretching out in the middle of the bed like Luke always found him when he got home after Andreas fell asleep.

But it never happened that way, as far as Luke knows, and it never will now. Andreas may not have a huge amount of shit there, but it’s everywhere—suits and ties in the closet, underwear and t-shirts in a drawer Luke cleaned out for him. Aftershave, a razor, a toothbrush. His fancy ass shampoo and conditioner chilling beside Luke’s Head & Shoulders. Cookbooks in the living room that Luke’s never touched, and a scarf that’s soft to the touch in the front closet, and some sports biographies that Luke’s always meant to read when Andreas was done with them, but never got around to. He ends up keeping the enforcer one on the shelf instead of gathering it with the rest of Andreas’ things. He doesn’t think Andreas will mind.

He gathers it all before he has to head down to Florida, in bits and pieces—Andreas’ fancy pizza cutter when he’s putting a sandwich together in the kitchen, Andreas’ fancy beer when he’s grabbing himself a Labatt to wash it down, the whole lot of the books, minus the one, when he’s got his knees tucked up to him on the couch, Ben’s voice almost insultingly soft on the other line, not distracted even though Luke’s nephew is hiccuping sobs close to the receiver, so that Luke can picture it, Ben trying to soothe a hungry baby and a heartbroken brother at the same time and somehow not getting overwhelmed. Doesn’t say a word against Andreas even when Luke thinks he wants Ben to. Doesn’t say a word against Andreas when Luke knows he doesn’t, because anything he could say would be untrue, and Ben’s never been a liar.

Gathers it all so it can sit on the dining room table. It all fits in a hockey bag, an extra Devils one that Luke has, puts it all in, doesn’t know if that’s passive aggressive or what, the Devils bag, the soft shirt with Luke’s name and number on the back, two sizes too small for him to wear himself, and he debated putting it in, but its Andreas’ choice if he wants to burn the thing or keep wearing it to bed, someone else’s fingers finding the places where the cotton’s broken by the lettering. Texts Andreas to say he can pick it up, and he doesn’t know what he’ll do if he comes home to find it gone. Doesn’t know what he’ll do if he comes home and finds it still sitting there, nothing important enough to salvage.


	29. Andy/Derek; Derek has a coat problem

Andy probably should have known something was wrong when the topic of Regina came up and Derek started quizzing him endlessly on Saskatchewan’s weather patterns and poring over the Weather Network’s overall trends for Regina, but Derek goes on weird obsessive binges sometimes—yoga seems like the only one that stuck—and Andy kind of liked that Derek’s weird obsessive binge was Saskatchewan related. He was naïve. He realises that now.

“Der?” Andy calls, and Derek pops out of the bathroom in an orange parka that’s so big it practically swallows him up, which is pretty impressive, since Derek is not small. Also not easy to swallow.

“Are you sweating?” Andy asks.

“This is good at -50,” Derek says proudly.

“It’s twenty-five degrees out,” Andy says. “You’re going to give yourself heatstroke.”

Derek scowls, but struggles out of the parka, which takes awhile, because it’s got like three different zippers and they all seem intent on getting stuck. Andy would help, but he’s learned over the years just to let Derek handle shit or he’ll get pissy. That and it’s hilarious to watch.

It takes a few minutes, but eventually Derek’s back down to a t-shirt.

“Why do we have like fifty parkas?” Andy asks patiently.

“I got some for you,” Derek says, still proud sounding. “They have ones meant for tall dudes, so they should fit.”

“That’s nice,” Andy says distractedly. “Why do we have like fifty parkas?”

“Well you’re going to take the deal,” Derek says. “Right? I mean, you said you would.”

“Regina isn’t a barren wasteland,” Andy says.

Derek stares at him for a minute. “I looked at the weather patterns,” he says. “You lie, sir.”

Andy snorts.

“I have been to Regina in winter,” Derek says, voice rising. “You have seen me in Regina in winter.”

That’s fair. Derek tended to pack a balaclava and double up on hats at the same time, and wore cheap gloves inside some heavy duty ones Andy thinks are meant for, like, polar explorers. He insisted on doing it even if they were just outside for the two minutes it took to get on and off the bus. He was even worse in Winnipeg, and the consensus favourite activity of the Senators when in the prairies was to hide all of Derek’s winter shit then smirk while Derek panicked in Andy’s direction. Derek’s kind of a baby about the cold.

Regina’s warmer than Prince Albert, and Andy’s got a perfectly serviceable jacket that’s only a couple years old. And now apparently at least five more draped on the couch.

“If Regina’s too big a change—” Andy says quietly.

“No,” Derek says, hugging the parka to his chest. “I have parkas. I am ready. I have parkas, and I’m going to buy all the hats in Ottawa, and we will rock this.”

Andy would think the hat thing was overstatement, but judging by their house, he probably will put a dent in their substantial savings buying out every Ottawa retailer still stocking tuques in the summer.

“Derek—” Andy says, chewing his lip, and Derek comes over, tucks himself under Andy’s chin, a good ten pounds of down getting between them and coyote fur tickling Andy’s neck.

“If you don’t want to do this,” Andy murmurs.

“I would move to a barren wasteland for you,” Derek says solemnly into Andy’s throat, and Andy snorts.

“Thanks, bud,” he says, and Derek squeezes as close as he can get with the parka in the way.


	30. Sven Olsen; a captain's duty never ends

Sven only returns to the room because he forgot his cufflinks. They were a Christmas gift from Yvette’s parents back when they were still dating, and the only time he wears them is for particularly special game days, but Yvette’s father notices every time he wears them, like he watches the pre-game just to peek at Sven’s wrists. Sven suspects that he will be demoted to second favourite son in law if he loses them. Yvette’s sister has bad taste, so the thought is too awful to contemplate.

Everyone cleared out a while ago, off on their own celebrations after a tight win against the Leafs, one even more gratifying because it nudges the Senators up in the standings, occupying the spot the Leafs had held until the clock ran out. Gerard and Yvette are either waiting for him in the parking lot or have thrown up their hands and abandoned him to drive home alone. Probably the latter, but he’s unbothered by the thought, would almost prefer to come home to find the babysitter gone, Gerard having cracked open a beer and commandeered his indirect namesake, half to give Yvette a break, half because he is physically incapable of not picking up Sven’s kid the second he’s in a room with him, like he’s magnetized. Sven doesn’t mind the assist. It’s practically an alternate’s job, not that anyone else is offering, but Sven suspects Yvette’s been subtly training Gerard since she met him. He makes a good babysitter. A good alternate. Other things Sven shouldn’t be contemplating. He’s got a ten month old, he’s clearly not getting enough sleep.

An empty locker room is always a little unsettling, no matter how many years you play, though Sven’s used to them, used to being the first there and the last to leave. Captain’s duty, and he tends to settle into that role wherever he plays, the coaches and management appreciating the quiet, the rest of the team half convinced he’s got psychic superpowers, rather than just being less oblivious than the lot of them. He’d dissuade them from that belief, but he thinks they kind of like that about him.

He’s tucked his cufflinks into his breast pocket when he hears a low, cut-off groan, and he closes his eyes, presses his fingers to his temple. “That’s unhygenic,” he calls out. “Don’t make me come in there.”

Carruthers wanders out after a minute, towel loose around his waist. Sven assumes that Bowie’s hiding out of mortification and the dim hope that Sven won’t know he’s there, and Sven’s feeling charitable and not particularly interested in facing six and a half feet of wet, naked, blushing ginger, so he just crosses his arms at Carruthers, who is trying to look casual.

“It’s a shower,” Carruthers says, “it’s like, the definition of hygenic.”

Sven stares at him. Carruthers stares back for about ten seconds, then drops his eyes, chastised.

“Take him home,” Sven says. “And stop having sex where we all have to shower.”

“Who?” Derek asks.

Sven gives him another look, before making sure he has everything. “Those showers are disgusting,” Sven says. “Be better, Carruthers.”

“Yes, captain,” Derek says, throws off a sloppy salute with his free hand, and Sven uses his considerable control to not roll his eyes, because that’d probably make Carruthers happy.

“Clean the semen off the walls before you leave,” Sven says blandly, and takes some satisfaction in the way that Carruthers, usually the most inappropriate in the room, starts to blush.


	31. Media attention

**The Beauty and the Swede: Ottawa’s Second Power Couple**

Excerpt:

“I told him early if he was traded, I wasn’t going with him,” Yvette says. “He laughed and said if he was traded, he wasn’t going either.”

Olsen’s a home-town boy. He was born in a small town in Sweden that he has assured me, solemnly, I am pronouncing ‘very incorrectly’, but he moved to Ottawa with his parents at the age of ten. A first round draft pick of the Ottawa Senators, he’s been vocal about his loyalty to the Senators and to the city of Ottawa.

Yvette Gagnon hasn’t moved much further. A native of Gatineau, Quebec, she was only a few kilometres from home when she met Olsen for the first time. “I went to practice flirting in English,” she says with a laugh. “Of course the first person to flirt with me did it in French.”

That person was Gerard Leon, one of the Senators’ assistant captains, and Olsen’s right-hand man, both on the ice and off. He was best man at the wedding. “She only looked at him,” he says. “It was love at first sight.”

One can expect no less from the most famous couple in Ottawa, barring the Prime Minister and his wife, and the star-crossed romance of Dan Riley and Marc Lapointe, who the Senators affectionately call ‘the diver’. When asked to explain the name, Derek Carruthers laughs for a good ten seconds straight before clarifying.

“The first time Riley played with us against the Habs, he patted Lapointe on the back and got a penalty out of it,” Carruthers explains. “He’s been ‘the diver’ since.”

“We like him though,” Andy Bowman chimes in, from his permanent place at Carruthers’ side. “He can stay.”

“Says the guy who had a crush on him when he was a teenager,” Carruthers says.

Bowman punches him in the side, and the argument devolves from there. Carruthers is named a Leafs fan, and Bowman is called other things not fit to print. When I leave, they’re still arguing.


	32. Stephen in school

Gabe quizzing him on shit and tossing him pretzels when he gets things right. Stephen using Gabe's ass as a pillow while reading a text book, and Gabe's conked out for his afternoon nap, so he doesn't notice. Stephen inviting a couple study group people over, and one girl saying sceptically "I thought you were from Toronto," and at his confusion, "your parents moved here?" and then their blank looks at his "oh, this is my boyfriend's house." Stephen inevitably getting found out by said study buddies because it's fucking Vancouver the year after a Cup, every man on that team is a hero. Gabe getting totally used to a bunch of sleep deprived students in his kitchen, ignoring his high fives, rude. Stephen in the 80th percentile while using the accessibility services for exams, Gabe very loudly exuding 'I'm not telling you I told you so but I told you so.' Gabe being ceaselessly mocked when he brings one of Stephen's textbooks on a road trip because he wants to have some idea of what's going on in Stephen's courses, okay, so sue him. Stephen wired on too much coffee and too little sleep ruining Gabe's nap time, which he's legitimately pissed about because Stephen wouldn't have done it when he was playing, he'd understand, he'd be napping himself, somewhere far away from Gabe, and--Gabe doesn't want to think about it, honestly. He's not grateful for the accident. He's not, he could never be. But god he's grateful to have Stephen here, even if he is currently jittery as fuck and jeopardizing Gabe's game.


	33. The Grumpiest Olympic Line (plus Marc Lapointe, unexpected ray of sunshine!)

Everyone's celebrating. It's not that David doesn't think a semi-final win is worth celebrating, it is, it's amazing, the world stage, broad as anything he's ever known, playing with the best in the world, against the best in the world, and winning. It's amazing, but he doesn't think Canada will get very close to a gold medal if they're still hungover when they play Sweden. It's over the top. A silver medal wouldn't feel anything like gold, and he doesn't think premature celebration is the best way to clinch said gold. Jake would probably tell him to appreciate the victory, or some other bullshit, but Jake isn't even looking at a medal, so David will feel free to disapprove over a slowly warming mug of beer.

Players are peeling away, and David could hope they were off to responsibly sleep, but more likely they're planning to use the never-ending stock of condoms and athletes happy as hell to sleep with Canadian royalty. Not that David's paying much attention, but some of his teammates--guys with wives, girlfriends--are loudly enjoying the attention. He figures the slow break-up of the crowd means he's got an excuse to leave without appearing to be a bad teammate, getting spurned from the roster the next time round, like he was four years ago--though he still stands by the fact that Canada's got a hell of a lot more depth than the US, and Jake getting the shoulder tap first was irrelevant, comparatively--but Lapointe sits down in the booth with him, followed by Rousseau, and David genuinely doesn't mind sticking around.

He's spent more time with them than anyone--sharing a line will do that--but Rousseau's quiet, and Lapointe's not, but when he runs his mouth it isn't with the same stupid shit David's used to hearing. When he met him, it was hard not to think of camp in Toronto, the Lapointe gay panic, and it's hard to forget it after, because Lapointe's got a wedding band on his finger except for games, when it's worn around his neck, a less than mediocre player sitting back in Canada that he's tied himself to. It was hard not to notice, for the whole team he thinks, not just him, though probably for different reasons, but David's used to him now, doesn't startle when Lapointe mentions 'Dan', easy as if it was his wife or girlfriend, though Rousseau clearly still does. Still, it hits him low in the stomach every time Lapointe says his name easily, makes him a little nauseous, Jake in the Olympic Village somewhere, at least at first. He's probably on his way home now.

"They're going to get drunk," Rousseau says, quiet. David looks over at him, mouth tilting, because at least Rousseau gives a shit.

"They are already drunk," Lapointe says easily. "But they know their limits."

David gives him a sceptical look that Rousseau matches.

"You are not the only people who want to win a gold medal," Lapointe says. "Enjoy this."

Simcoe knocks against their table, spills his drink down Lapointe's shirt, and Lapointe doesn't cuss him out with the vocabulary David's heard on the ice, filthy enough that the Quebecois in Major Juniors would be taking notes to add more to their list, doesn't say anything.

"Enjoy it," Rousseau says flatly.

"I'd enjoy gold more," David adds.

"You need alcohol," Lapointe says, looking at Rousseau, then David. "Desperately."

David rolls his eyes, but when Lapointe fetches a pitcher, David lets him pour him a pint.


	34. Andy/Derek; with Dan's spawn

Andy's vaguely concerned when Derek goes on a walk and comes back an hour later with a toddler in his arms. A familiar looking toddler. Who Derek acquired while the Habs are in town. Upon recognition, Andy's concern ticks up a notch.

“Why do you have Dan's daughter?” Andy asks.

“Well--” Derek says, opening his mouth.

“Don't tell me,” Andy decides. “Lapointe's less likely to kill me if I wasn't involved.” Not unlikely, but less likely. He hopes.

“The diver isn't going to know,” Derek says dismissively. Andy wonders, not for the first time, how he fell for someone so dumb.

“Where did you even get her from?” Andy asks tiredly. The toddler—Charlotte, he remembers, has started wriggling in Derek's arms, trying to escape his grip, and once she gets seriously squirmy Derek leans over to gently set her down.

“Riley,” Derek shrugs, then, “hey, you want to colour? I bet daddy doesn't let you colour on walls”

“You have a death wish,” Andy decides, following them at the slow pace Charlotte sets, uncertaintly toddling, Derek a step behind to catch her if she stumbles, because the ceramic floor isn't forgiving to little bodies, they know that all too well from the horde of nieces and nephews.

In the kitchen there's a chalkboard wall, probably for like, grocery lists or something, but mostly used when Carruthers kids (and Derek) feel like doodling. Derek arms Charlotte with a piece of chalk and settles her in his lap.

“If she goes home and draws on their walls, I'm blaming you and running,” Andy says, and Derek doesn't even pause in whatever he's saying in a low voice to Charlotte while raising a middle finger in Andy's direction.

Andy sighs and folds himself down on the floor beside them. “What are we drawing?” he asks Charlotte, who is concentrating hard, tongue stuck out the side of her mouth, as she makes very faint marks on the board. “Can I help?” She lets him guide her hand, put gentle pressure down so the marks appear.

“Hockey,” she says decisively, though it comes out kind of garbled, and if Andy hadn't had French teammates all his life he would have thought it was babble.

“You're definitely your fathers' daughter,” Andy says, and proceeds to help her draw hockey.


	35. Dan & Yvette & Petit Gerard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "'anything involving Yvette and Dan interacting, literally anything'"

It isn't serious, he's been assured, nothing that will take him out more than two weeks, a message he dutifully relayed to his parents and Marc. A strain that's benched him, altered his work out, and left him with the option of chilling with management or families during a home game against Toronto, and he opts for families because his production hadn't been great, pre-injury, and he'll cop to being slightly afraid of hanging out in an enclosed space with guys who definitely noticed and have the power to do something about it.

That decision didn't take into account the distraction factor of a bunch of Senators spawn and the intimidation factor of the captain's wife, who speaks to him initially in fast French, looks mightily unimpressed when Dan--admittedly married to a Francophone--gives her a slightly stupefied look, and then hands off the Olsen baby to his non-French speaking care so she can use the washroom. Dan doesn't mind, the little Gerard just blinks sleepily up at him and settles into the crook of his arm, a warm bundle.

“Hi,” Dan says, low, and at Gerard's presumably welcoming blink, “watching your daddy? And your—big Gerard?”

Dan settles him more firmly in his grip, looks at the time. “Right now your dad's probably giving an inspiring speech,” he tells him. “And big Gerard's looking for people who aren't listening. That's usually Carruthers. Sometimes rookies, but usually Carruthers.” The baby observes him steadily with the uncanny Olsen eyes. What's alert in a baby will probably be intimidating as hell in adulthood, if his dad's any indication. “Carruthers is a bad influence, you should know that.”

Olsen's wife returns, looking expectant, and Dan hesitates.

“You're welcome to keep holding him,” she says, “unless you plan on getting excited.”

Seeing as it's old rivals and they're tenuously holding on to a place in the standings the Leafs are intent on cracking, Dan will admit he is probably not the best baby holder at the moment. But still. Baby. “I'll be careful,” he says meekly.

She gives him a look that reminds him of the fact that she's an elementary teacher. He feels about six years old. “I promise.”

“Don't break my baby,” she says, warningly, and Dan nods hurriedly.

Fucking Olsens, they're terrifying. He should have tried his luck with management, though management doesn't come with warm, soft sleepy babies.

“Your parents are scary,” Dan whispers to Gerard, and has the uncanny feeling that she's heard him, looking over his shoulder to see her watching the pre-game and breathing a sigh of relief.

“Very scary,” he repeats, and Gerard blinks in agreement.


	36. Gabe/Stephen; study group

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: ‘Stephen at school! Does he have many friends? Do they know who he used to be, or who Gabe is?'

Gabe doesn't know why Stephen's study group is always there. Okay, he does—Stephen is pretty good at the whole providing snacks and caffeine thing, and Gabe's living room's equipped with couches comfortable enough they could make you weep, his first big splurge of his career, just old enough now to welcome the curve of his body, of Stephen's, when they sit. It isn't far enough from campus to be inconvenient, like his old place, because Stephen doesn't drive, and they get the bonus of haranguing a Canucks player on a shitty season, which a couple of them seem to enjoy, and Stephen clearly finds somewhat amusing. So Gabe would like to again fatalistically question why they are always there.

This time it's in the middle of the day when he's trudging in from a road trip, of which the less said, the better. The Habs had kicked their sorry asses the night before, the last in a series in the East, which was supposed to be easier. Gabe wants his bed, and he wants a Stephen to curl up with him, with a text book or not, but instead he's greeted by a living room of commerce students.

Gabe grunts greeting and trudges to the kitchen. No bed, so coffee for now. The coffee's already percolating, at least, so he pours himself a mug, rests his head against the cabinets.

“What was that last night?” he hears from behind him and nearly knocks his head against wood. “Sorry,” she says, when Gabe turns around to glare at her, not really sounding it. “But seriously, what is going on with the powerplay?”

It's a fair question, and one more than one journalist asked in the room the night before, and more than one journalist will ask before the next home game. But Gabe's tired, and at home, and really not in the mood to think about the inexcusably shitty power play for a moment. Just one. He treks back into the living room without a word, not really caring that he's being tude, or not caring enough to answer, at least, settles beside Stephen on the couch with his coffee, closing his eyes when Stephen brushes his fingers over the back of his hand, listens to the drone of metrics of something he doesn't care about.

He drifts for a minute, before “but seriously,” breaks into the drone, and he opens his eyes to the same girl, accompanied by her own cup of coffee, which at least means she didn't go to the kitchen solely to harangue him. “That power play.”

“Maybe it'd be fine in the PK was doing its job,” pipes in a guy from Stephen's right. “Or like. Forget special teams, if your five-on-five was doing anything, maybe you wouldn't be looking at a .500 record.”

Gabe takes a sip of too hot coffee. “Do your math stuff,” he mumbles, but is mostly overtaken by the girl again, breaking in to say “You guys are fucking Garmin so hard, his save percentage is insane and you're still losing. Where's the defensive support? Where's the offensive?”

“Guys,” Stephen says, as Gabe mumbles “I'm going to go take a nap.”

“Don't,” Stephen says, which overlaps with, “Maybe there's your problem right there, you're napping on the ice.”

“Statistics,” Stephen snaps. “One more word about the Canucks and I'm kicking you out. I hear about them enough already from this one.”

Gabe salutes him with his cup of coffee. “Nap,” he says, and Stephen gives him a look. The girl over on the other couch opens her mouth, and Stephen manages to give her one too, somehow without looking away from Gabe. 

“Don't fuck with your schedule,” Stephen tells Gabe. “And did you seriously skip class yesterday just to watch the game?” he asks her, and she shrugs noncommittally.

“Hockey freaks,” Stephen says under his breath, to which Gabe snorts, and nudges Gabe's side with his elbow, keeps it there while he gets back to droning and Gabe goes back to spacing out and ignoring the elephant (orca) in the room.


	37. Mike/Liam; vacation

“Put the fucking sunscreen on,” Mike says. For the third time, because Liam's as unwilling to bow to reason about the heat as he is the cold, to the surprise of fucking no one. It's a toss-up to whether he'll freckle all over or burn pink, but either way he's being stupid, and Mike, who actually tans unlike a specific bratty fighting Irish, is trying to set a good example. For all the fucking good that does.

“I'll do it at the beach,” Liam blithely lies, “Come on old man, we're not going to get an umbrella if you don't get up.”

“Sunscreen first,” Mike says, and tries to convey just how unmoved he is. Literally, in this case, because he and the rickety patio chair are now one, and Liam isn't even close to strong or ruthless enough to part them.

Liam sighs longsufferingly, which is Mike's noise to make, thank you, and snatches the sunscreen from the table, slathering it on thick until he's under white, coconut scented war paint, streaks of it not blended in on his face. “There,” he says. “Now can we go?”

“Come here,” Mike says, and Liam obeys that at least, sinking to one knee in front of Mike's chair when Mike tugs his wrist. Mike rubs his thumb over the sunscreen, rubbing it in to the hard cut of his cheekbones, the slight rub of his unshaved jaw. “You're fucking ridiculous,” he says, and Liam beams at him like it's a compliment.


	38. David/Jake; forehead touching

More often than not, when David wakes up after sharing a bed with Jake, he wakes to Jake’s breath humid against the back of his neck, an arm slung heavy over his side, sometimes a leg thrown over his thigh. A solid line of heat down his back, one that might be oppressive if the air conditioner wasn’t running so high, the room so cool he’s reluctant to pull away from it. That’s usually the case, but it isn’t always. David wakes up with an arm flung over him, a leg flung over him, yes, but he wakes up with Jake’s hair in his mouth, nose brushing his. He tries to quietly spit Jake’s hair out, startles back when Jake’s eyes open, so close David can see freckles in the irises.

“Time’s it?” Jake mumbles.

David pulls away to check his phone, finds they have twenty more minutes before his alarm goes off and another day of camp descends.

“Have to be up in twenty minutes,” David says, moves to get up, because he might as well.

“No, sleep,” Jake says, arm growing heavier.

“Twenty minutes isn’t going to make much a difference,” David tells him.

“Sleep,” Jake repeats, through a yawn, immovable, and David sighs and settles back down, eyes opening again when Jake’s lips brush his forehead.

“Sleep,” Jake scolds, and David gives in.


	39. Mike/Liam; Taking care of the other while sick

“You didn’t wake me up,” Liam accuses from the bathroom door.

“You are at least a hundred degrees,” Mike says. “I think you burned me. Go back to fucking bed.”

Liam wavers a little on his feet.

“Jesus christ,” Mike says, and abandons shaving, one cheek left foamy, to escort Liam back to bed.

“I have a game tonight,” Liam says, as Mike forcibly tucks the blankets under his chin.

“Tough shit,” Mike says. “You have a fever.” He finds Liam’s phone in his jeans, discarded on the floor. “Call your coach.”

“I’m fine,” Liam says.

“I’m going to finish shaving,” Mike says. “If you haven’t called him by the time I get back, I will. And you will not enjoy that.”

Liam glowers. Mike puts the phone square at the center of his chest. “Fucking try me,” he says.

When Mike gets back, Liam’s flushed and miserable, and there’s a minute and a half outgoing call. “Good,” Mike says. “Sleep or breakfast?”

Liam glares at him. Mike is unmoved.

“Sleep,” Liam decides after a minute. “Come back to bed?” His eyes are big and blue and sad.

Mike actually has shit to do, sort of, as much as anything’s actually urgent these days. Also, Liam really is scalding hot to the touch—Mike woke up sweating. He can’t afford to get sick. The last thing he can afford right now is to get sick.

“You eat breakfast, I come back,” Mike says.

“I’m not hungry,” Liam says.

Mike waits.

“Fine,” Liam huffs. “Breakfast, then you come back to bed.”

“Deal,” Mike says, and brushes Liam’s hair back from where it’s plastered, sweaty, to his forehead, pausing to check his temperature as he does so.

“I want something good,” Liam mumbles, half asleep already. “M’sick, I deserve it.”

“Whatever, you giant fucking baby,” Mike says, then goes to make him an omelet.


	40. Andy/Derek; anniversary celebrations

“I’m not coming in,” Andy says.

There are rose petals in the doorway. If Andy steps on them, he will crush them, and they will make a mess. He’s also very, very afraid of what might be inside. Maybe there are candles. Maybe Derek’s bedroom is on fire right now because he set one beside his curtains or something. It’s definitely possible.

Derek looks hurt until Andy suggests this, and then he looks panicked, wanders off to his room and comes back to look at Andy again, even more hurt.

“They smell like Christmas,” he hisses. “And nothing is on fire.”

“You said we were going to dinner,” Andy says without hope. “You promised there wouldn’t be roses.”

“Did I promise there wouldn’t be _white_ roses?” Derek asks.

“White roses are a kind of rose,” Andy says. “So yes.”

Derek pauses for a second.

“Can you bring me a broom?” Andy says. “’Cause there was a reason you promised me no roses.”

Derek looks blank.

“Allergic,” Andy says, pointing at himself.

“Oh shit,” Derek says, scrambling into the hall.

“Please tell me you blew out the candles,” Andy calls from doorway.

Derek’s feet pause, then scramble towards his room.

Andy sneezes.


	41. Gabe/Stephen; keeping each other warm

Winter means Otter Creek. Winter has always meant Otter Creek, Stephen and Gabe skating until their legs were rubber and barely managing the walk back home. It’s been awhile since that was the case, but they’ve managed to swing a couple days in Toronto, and Elisabeth and Anna are insistent they go, because winter means Otter Creek.

The cold in Toronto goes down to Gabe’s bones after Vancouver winters, and there’s no shelter on the rink. There’s a game of shinny taking place scrunched up on half the rink, leaving space for the toddlers with their sledges and the families, and Gabe and Stephen, freezing their asses off watching Elisabeth show off some move that is very impressive; Gabe knows if he tried it he’d pull his groin or something. Anna’s been inching closer and closer to the shinny, and Gabe glances over just in time to see a sneer—shit eating smug pre-teen superiority he couldn’t stand then and can’t now, and skates up behind Anna to catch the tail end of what Gabe was sure was a very convincing argument of how she can’t join because she’s a girl.

Anna doesn’t look hurt, just resigned and a little pissed, which Gabe’s totally in agreement with. “Guarantee she’s better than you,” Gabe says.

The kid looks up, posse already coming over, and he’s got his mouth screwed up, prepared for what Gabe is also sure is a very mature statement, when one of the kids goes “Wait, are you Gabe Markson?”

“Yeah,” Gabe says.

“Holy shit,” says a kid who can’t be more than eight. “Will you play with us?”

“Don’t have a stick,” Gabe says. “And I’d rather tool around with her, thanks.”

Anna smirks.

“You can borrow my dad’s,” another kid offers. “We’re at the apartments right next door. And I guess you could use my brother’s,” he adds reluctantly to Anna.

“Brought my own,” Anna says. “But thanks anyway.”

Stephen’s skated over, stands a few paces back, and Gabe glances back. Stephen gives him a mittened thumbs up.

“Yeah okay,” Gabe says. “Just for a bit.”

By the end of it he’s shucked his parka, down to a hoodie, knees wet from a shift as goalie. Elisabeth has gotten bored with them and headed home, and Stephen’s migrated off the ice, taken possession of Gabe’s coat, face mostly hidden behind the ruff of his own coat. His nose is pink. Gabe wants to kiss it.

“We kicked their asses,” Anna tells Stephen.

“I saw,” Stephen says. “Though Gabe was slacking off, that was all you.”

“I know!” she says, exasperated.

Gabe laughs, takes possession of his coat again, curling his hand around Stephen’s briefly, wool against frozen stiff fingers.

“There are children here,” Anna says loudly.

“Fuck off,” Stephen mutters to her, and she tries, and fails, to look shocked. “Second Cup?” he adds.

“I want a latte,” Anna says.

“No way in hell,” Stephen says, and Anna argues her case the whole way there, entirely unsuccessfully. Gabe lets her have a sip of his while he thaws out, and it’s totally worth Stephen kicking him under the table.


	42. Dan/Marc; hand holding

I’m kind of hurt,” Dan says, half a pace behind Marc, who’s more or less dragging him by the hand. As much as he can. Dan’s mostly letting him, but he suspects if he resists, Marc will use all that coiled strength in his body and drag him along anyway.

Marc pauses, grip loosening slightly.

“Not  _hurt,”_ Dan says. “Sad. Emotionally hurt.”

Marc glances back at him, slightly askance.

“You only hold my hand when you want to piss people off,” Dan says.

“You do not like holding my hand,” Marc says.

“That’s not true,” Dan argues. It’s not. He just doesn’t like holding Marc’s hand in  _public,_ because PDA is kind of gross.

“You do not like holding my hand in public,” Marc says.

Mind reader.

“And yet here we are,” Dan says. “Holding hands. In public. Because you want to piss the homophobes off.”

Marc shoots him a look like  _and what is wrong with that?_ Which, fair, Dan guesses, but still. His hand is not a weapon. Against homophobia at least, it’s totally a weapon other times. And against homophobia, thanks to Marc.

Okay, his hand is a weapon.

Marc’s been defensive since he got back from Seoul, because of course he comes back with a gold medal but all he can talk about is the media’s disrespect towards Dan. Dan doesn’t care: it’s bullshit, and he knows it’s bullshit, and  _Marc_ knows it’s bullshit, and that’s about all the opinions he cares about when it comes to his relationship. Also his parents and Marc’s, but they all know it’s bullshit as well, and Dan thinks his mom might be angrier about the Dan bashing than Marc is. Which is saying something, because Marc is spitting mad.He is  _rampaging._

“We’re not making out in public or anything, are we?” Dan asks cautiously. Making out in public has not been traditionally a good choice for them.

Marc looks thoughtful.

“We’re not making out in public,” Dan says. It’s a statement. It has force behind it.

“Why are you not wearing your wedding ring?” Marc asks.

“You literally just kidnapped me from my locker room so you could drag me in to a press scrum,” Dan says, as they approach the Habs’ room, which predictably has a scrum. As always. “It’s still around my neck.”

“Put it on,” Marc says.

“You have to let go of my hand for me to do that,” Dan tells him.

Marc looks torn.

“Or they’ll think I’m leaving you,” Dan says. “Because I am an unsupportive husband who didn’t even watch you win Gold.”

Marc lets go of his hand.

“There, wasn’t that easy?” Dan asks, and has just enough time to unhook the chain from around his neck before the scrum senses blood and descends. 


	43. Gabe/Stephen; anniversary celebration

It is very hard to have an anniversary when there's no real start date to your relationship. Like, when they met, somewhere around a week old? When they acted on shit at fourteen years old? When they fucked? When they talked like human beings? When Gabe won the Cup and got the best blowjob he's ever received? (he is definitely leaning towards that one) The problem is, there isn't really anyone he can ask. Sure, him and Stephen could mutually decide on a date for propriety and parents' sake, but--

Gabe can't ask his parents, obviously. Stephen's, just as obviously. Stephen's sisters, absolutely not, Gabe would scar them, or more likely, they'd scar him. Jake would probably offer good advice, but Stephen would stab him in his sleep if he found out Gabe went to Jake for advice for their relationship. And then he would hunt Jake down and stab him in his sleep. Gabe can't do that to the Panthers. Jake is basically all they have.

That leaves Gabe with two options. One, he talks to Stephen and they mutually decide upon an agreeable anniversary, preferably one where there's no potential Gabe will be a continent away from home, though that's a narrow window. Two, he consults his calendar and his memory, figures out the relevant dates (not the Cup date, that one's seared in his memory), and then plans things for those dates. Little things. Barely noticeable things. Maybe Gabe will make dinner. Maybe he won't follow Stephen around and pick up his shit as soon as he drops it. 

So the second one, then.

Except the problen is, sorting through texts and emails and season schedules and his old diary (shut up, he was eleven), he accumulates too many. Way too many. Gabe's cooking repetoire is not big enough. He does not have enough patience regarding Stephen's messiness. He gets tired just logging them.

Thing is, there are so many dates that the lack of one firm one doesn't feel like much of a lack.


	44. Mike/Liam; Adopting a pet together

It’s the first time Liam ever gives him an ultimatum.

“I freak out every time I leave,” Liam tells him. Mike’s noticed. Liam is never going to be subtle.

“I have a family,” Mike says.

“Your mom is old, your brother has a kid to take care of, and they’re both in Duluth,” Liam says. “Not good enough.”

Mike glowers at him.

“I freak out every time I leave,” Liam repeats.

“I am aware of that,” Mike spits out.

“Can you humor me?” Liam says. “I don’t give a shit if you tell everyone it’s me being ridiculous, can you just humor me?”

“I don’t like dogs,” Mike says.

“You don’t like anything,” Liam mutters.

Mike maturely pretends he didn’t hear that.

“Look,” Liam says. “I can’t—I don’t even enjoy it anymore.”

“What,” Mike says, “You’d quit professional hockey because your—” his mouth twists, “boyfriend can’t take care of himself?”

Liam doesn’t say anything, not even to crow about Mike actually willingly calling Liam his boyfriend, which is pretty much as serious as it gets for him.

“Are you about to promise you’ll feed and walk it?” Mike asks. “And you’ll be so good for Santa this year?”

Liam rolls his eyes. “If that’s what it takes,” he says.

*

Her name’s Bella. Mike doesn’t pick the name, obviously, but neither does Liam. Whoever trained her has shit taste in names, but they raised a good dog, obedient, quiet. She doesn’t do any of the shit Mike associates with dogs, doesn’t beg at the table or bark or lick him all the fucking time. She’s better behaved than Liam, that’s for fucking sure.

*

“No,” Liam says to her, curled at the foot of the bed. She eyes him placidly. “You have a bed.”

“She has a bed,” he tells Mike.

“On the floor,” Mike says.

“It’s comfortable,” Liam says. “She’s comfortable on that bed.”

“She cries,” Mike says.

“She cries because every time I’m not here you let her sleep on the bed,” Liam argues.

Mike doesn’t deny it. “She cries,” he repeats.

“Fuck,” Liam says. “How are you this much of a sap?”

“Do you want to sleep on the floor?” Mike asks flatly.

“Ugh,” Liam says, and curls up beside him. Bella rests her head on Mike’s ankle.

“You don’t even feed her,” Mike says. “You’re a shitty dog owner.”

“We all know she’s yours,” Liam mumbles through a yawn, then tucks his face in Mike’s shoulder before Mike can argue.


	45. Joe & Jake; comforting your bro

Joe was not expecting this.

“Why would you—” Jake asks, rubbing his eyes.

“It’s—it’s a happy thing!” Joe says, alarmed. “Everything was in black and white, and now it’s in colour because of the power of love! Why are you crying, stop crying.”

Jake sniffles.

Joe reviews his previous statement.

Shit.

“Um,” he says. “Do you want room service? Let’s get you cake, do you want cake?” 

Jake rubs his eyes again and nods.

Joe gets him cake. Joe gets himself cake too, because now he feels crappy. Zero points for Joe, and Gallagher’s stupid fucking parent trap plan is unfortunately looking better and better by the day.

“Can I pick a movie?” Jake asks.

“Of course,” Joe says. “Go wild.”

Jake pulls out his laptop, all furrowed brow and concentration and chocolate icing on his chin that Joe’s not telling him about because it’s funny. He finally turns his laptop to Joe.

“The Notebook,” Joe says slowly.

Jake nods.

“Is this revenge?” Joe asks.

Jake shrugs one shoulder.

“Everyone says you’re nice but it’s a fucking lie,” Joe says under his breath, and Jake snorts and hits play.


	46. Marc/Dan; Marc's Retirement

Dan goes to a lot of Habs games. It’s been a fact of life since retirement, and while it’s dwindled slightly since Charlie started school, she still usually gets to be the rebel who’s rallying the petit Canadiens in some game or another while her classmates are at home being tucked in with a story and Leon’s napping on Dan’s lap. Dan likes them—the kids love their hockey friends, love taking over the Habs dressing room after weekend games, screeching around in their dads’ jerseys, uncontrollable. Dan likes most of the moms, who pretty much adopted him into the WAG circle from the start, but were downright enthusiastic when he brought babies to cuddle. He’ll miss it, a little, he thinks, now that Marc’s hanging up his skates, and he’s been begged by a couple little guys to keep bringing Charlie around because she’s the best.

The point is, this is a regular part of their lives, so it figures the only time they have been conscripted (well, not conscripted, but Dan got two calls from Montreal’s management firmly suggesting he bring the whole family. Two. Retirement does not make calls from management less scary) is the one night his children are downright ensuring no one’s getting to the game on time. Marc’s parents showed up with plenty of time to hustle everyone, but that just got Charlie wound up, and then Leon wound up because Charlie was showing off to her grandparents and that inevitably leads to her teasing her brother, and then Leon got gum stuck in his hair (where did he even get it?), and the only thing Dan’s able to do, after many gentle attempts to get it out, is to cut it out, which has Leon wailing inconsolably for the entire trip to the Bell Centre, kicking at his car seat until Charlie’s yelling at him to shut up and Marc’s mom is sternly reprimanding her about how ‘shut up’ is rude, and Dan’s considering turning the fucking car around. Marc’s father, the brilliant man, took his own car, and is probably blissfully headache free.

Management got them seats, good ones, and Leon’s just calmed down to sniffles, but then Charlie starts throwing a fit about how she doesn’t want to sit in the seats, she wants to play with her friends, and that starts Leon up all over again. Dan gets a couple glares from the people in the seats around them, because the game’s underway, before they seem to recognise the motley bunch that is Marc Lapointe’s family, and then it’s all commiserating smiles, especially when Pierre goes and takes Charlie for cotton candy (because sugar is exactly what she needs right now) and Leon buries his wet face in Dan’s shoulder and quiets, except for a few mumbled comments in French about his hair.

Once they’re halfway through the first, Charlie is calmly munching her cotton candy and telling her grandfather all about her papa’s stats, which he listens to tolerantly, and Leon’s migrated to his own seat, thumb in his mouth and fingers curled in Dan’s jacket. They behave like angels, beyond Charlie relentlessly petitioning for popcorn once she’s finished her cotton candy, mouth bright blue, and Dan puts his foot down only to be undermined by Pierre, who is clearly the reason Marc got as spoiled as he did, because lord knows Marc’s mother has a spine of steel.

Montreal pulls out a win, which is a relief for the final game of the season, especially one against an arch-rival, but the Habs were mathematically eliminated four days ago, and it’s more ceremonial than anything. They’ve still got a packed house, though, and a passionate cheer, a standing ovation when the team raises their sticks in thanks, one that doesn’t end when most of the team goes off, Marc following until he’s nudged right back out onto the ice by a human blockade at the bench, looking hilariously disgruntled but obligingly doing one last lap, before trying to get off again, where he is blocked again. Dan can’t help the snort—figured something of the like was coming, because this city loves Marc as hard as Toronto dropped him, and is unsurprised when the camera pans from Marc on the ice to the specifically management chosen seats, Leon on his hip, thumb back in his mouth and his fingers clenched firmly around Dan’s ear, and Charlie—fuck, still with blue all over her face, wonderful, and Marc must catch a glimpse of it on the jumbotron, because he starts laughing at centre ice and totally ruins the vibe.

Security ends up coming to their row, Dan blinking and following them after a gesture, and fuck, they’ve got the red carpet rolling out now, because of course they do, this fucking ridiculous city and its love for its players, its love for this player. There’s carpet laid once they get down, though Charlie completely ignores it, goes skidding right into Marc’s arms across the ice, because put a sheet of ice in front of her and she’s as happy as anything, and Marc’s smirking when Dan gets down to centre ice, Charlie leaning against his thigh, grinning wide, teeth blue as her lips.

“What did you do to his hair?” Marc asks, because with Leon’s head tucked against Dan’s shoulder, the nearly bald patch is more obvious than ever.

“Don’t even,” Dan says. “Go make your pretty speech.”

“Did you know about this?” Marc asks, and he’s trying to play long-suffering, but he’s lit up so bright you could see him from space.

“If I did I would have washed her face first, you know they’re going to write an article about how Anglos can’t parent,” Dan says, low enough for his ears only, and Marc’s still laughing when he gets nudged to the mic and makes his undoubtedly pretty speech.


	47. Mike/Liam; edging

“Don’t,” Liam grits out, kicks at Mike’s side as Mike pulls back, presses his mouth against Liam’s shaking thigh. “Fuck, Mike, come on.”

“You told me you could last,” Mike says, hiding a smirk against Liam’s skin. Which he may have been betting on, because Liam bristles at any chirp, and takes any bet, and Mike honestly doesn’t mind that Liam still has a bit of a hair-trigger, because Liam doesn’t mind (frankly loves) Mike continuing when he’s shaky and oversensitive, and he’s young enough that his refractory time isn’t any hindrance.

But he likes the way Liam bristles, and blusters, and he likes the way Liam’s beneath him now, thighs shaking, the muscles of his stomach clenched, bottom lip between his teeth, already wet at the head with pre-come even though Mike’s mouth still tastes like him.

“I hate you,” Liam says from between gritted teeth.

“Mhm,” Mike agrees, rubs his beard against the cut of Liam’s hip, feeling the muscles of his groin tense beneath his cheek. He presses a kiss against the head of Liam’s cock, chaste, a little tender. “Ten more minutes,” he murmurs, lips brushing Liam as he speaks, “and I’ll let you come.”

Liam’s only answer is a slightly plaintive noise. Mike will take that as agreement.


	48. Mike/Liam; Liam bothering Mike post-retirement

“What are you doing?” Liam asks loudly.

Mike jerks awake silently, then opens his eyes just enough to equally silently glare at Liam. That was a rhetorical question. Mike was napping. Mike was enjoying his nap.

“It’s time for Bella’s walk,” Liam says.

Bella raises her head from Mike’s thigh. Bella was also napping, but Liam said the word. The fucking kill-switch. There’s no way Mike’s going back to sleep, because Bella’s hopped off the couch and is wagging her tail hopefully at him.

Mike is a fucking sucker.

He pushes off the couch, rolling his shoulders, ignoring the look Liam sends to you that eloquently states ‘The couch is bad for you, Michael’. Liam’s looks are much more eloquent than his actual speech.

“Sam’s coming over,” Liam says. “I’m taking him to see the North Stars.”

Well, that explains Mike being dethroned from his own fucking couch.

“Sam doesn’t like hockey,” Mike says, as Bella leads him in the direction of her leash. It’s a fact that kills Tom inside, and therefore amuses Mike.

“His girlfriend’s a fan,” Liam says with a shrug. “Gotta get the kid a grad present. He asked if I could get them in the room.”

“Not above pimping his own uncle out,” Mike says, half under his breath. Guess Sam’s a Brouwer boy after all.

Liam beams at him like the fucking sun, so clearly he heard it. Sam’s been calling Liam his uncle for half his life, so there’s no reason to beam like that. It hurts Mike’s eyes.

“Dog,” Mike grunts, and Bella bounds over, lets him put her leash on, beaming in a doggy way. Everything’s too bright in Mike’s life. It’s fucking annoying.


	49. Gabe/Stephen; knowing parents

Gabriel’s been back for the summer for two weeks, and he has spent six nights of it at home. One night at home without the accompaniment of Stephen glued by his side. Miriam doesn’t mind—not the absence, which she’s more than used to, or Stephen’s presence, because she genuinely adores the boy, but she’s not sure who they think they’re fooling.

“Should we stop the sleepovers?” Anouk asks, when Miriam refills her glass. Gabriel and Stephen took the girls to some action movie, which means it’s quiet in the Petersen house the way it rarely is. Miriam takes a moment to enjoy it.

“They’ll just sneak around,” Miriam says with a shrug. She’d rather knowing where they were, rather than the two of them wandering through the ravine or who knows what, trying for privacy.

Anouk considers her wine. “Do we tell them we know?” she asks.

“Let them tell us,” Miriam says.

*

It’s nearly half a decade later when Gabriel takes her aside, looking nervous, tells her about him and Stephen. It’s all she can do not to laugh at him.

“I know,” she says instead, squeezes his shoulder. “I’ve known for a long time.”

“What do you mean a long—” Gabriel starts, as she goes to start the dishes. “Mom!”

“You are not a subtle boy,” she tells him. “Wash or dry?”

Gabriel takes a moment to look offended, which she ignores, before he sighs, takes the sponge.


	50. Luke/Andreas; Ghosts

Sometimes, Luke wonders if Sidorchuk knows the effect he continues to have. Luke hasn’t fucked him in years, hasn’t spoken to him in just as long, faces him when he has to, less in the East, a semi-annual occasion. Luke doesn’t think about him much, he’s not lying, but shit comes around, Sidorchuk comes to town, and Luke’s like a thread on its way to snapping.

He doesn’t know which is worse, home games or away. Away games he ends up pacing a hole in the carpet, trapped, feeling proximity down to his bones, like he’s been offered a hit of something he’s finally managed to kick. Away games he stays carefully sober, grits his teeth, watches shitty TV, counts the hours until they leave.

Home games, he has the escape. Home games he can book it back to his apartment, but Anders is there. Their schedules tug them apart as much as anything, so when Luke’s in town, and Andreas is in town, Andreas is there. Which is great, honestly, Luke would frankly rather that Andreas stay there, even when Luke’s not in town, make the space his own, but Luke comes home, and Andreas is there, and.

Luke is inevitably a dick. He knows he is. Pent up aggression, adrenaline that never found an outlet, feeling like a sucker, scraped dry by the time he gets home, and Andreas is there, and Luke just.

Andreas is on his back, stripped to skin, Luke bracketing his body. “Get on your stomach,” Luke says, and his voice is raw, doesn’t sound like him. Right now, he can’t look Andreas in the eye.

Andreas rolls over without hesitation, trusting, leans in when Luke smoothes a hand down his side. No hesitation, no doubt, like he doesn’t notice at all, like maybe this is as much Luke as anything else.

Luke doesn’t want it to be. Luke hopes to god it isn’t. But fuck, it might be.


	51. Andy/Derek; shifty Valentine's day plans

Andy isn’t a suspicious person by nature, but he’s been with Derek long enough to know when Derek’s plotting something, and Derek’s looked shifty since All-Star week. No one should look shifty in Cabo. Derek got distracted from shifty looks at the time by laughing at Andy’s immediate sunburn despite the SPF 60 he packed, and trying and failing to convince Andy to have sex on the beach (Sand. Sand in terrible places. No thanks.), but now they’re back and he’s looking shifty again. Derek doesn’t usually prank him anymore, but Andy’s not ruling it out, and it’s probably going to be pretty epic if he’s been plotting for weeks. 

Andy’s not scared, he’s just wary. So when Jensen comes up to him after practice, earnestly asking if his girlfriend being allergic to roses means she’s allergic to all flowers, Andy blinks. And then squints. “When did you get a girlfriend?” Andy asks. “Weren’t you picking up last week?”

"Uh—" Jensen says.

"I don’t want flowers," Andy calls across the locker room. Derek glares at Jensen, and then shrugs his shoulders at Andy, a wordless ‘I tried!’. 

Right. Valentine’s Day is coming. Andy isn’t going to get pranked, he’s going to get wooed. 

This is somehow worse.

"Are you allergic to cats?" Riley asks him the next day, mouth twitching.

"Not you too," Andy says tiredly. "He’s not getting me a cat."

"He is probably going to get you a cat," Dan says. "Just saying. If you’re allergic he should probably know. He took me to a shelter last week. There are kittens, Andy. Tiny ones. He’ll put a ribbon on one and probably name it after you."

Andy puts his face in his hands. “If I lie and say I’m allergic to cats will it stop him?” he asks his hands.

"Bowman, have you ever successfully lied in your life?" Dan asks.

Andy looks up to glare at him, but they both know the answer to that one. 

"Easier than a puppy," Dan shrugs. "If he gets creative you might end up with a ferret or something. Go with the kitten."

"I don’t want a kitten," Andy mumbles. But. Now that he thinks about it, he kind of wants a kitten. He’s going to get a kitten, and Derek probably will put a bow on it and try to name it Bowie or something. It’s going to be adorable and follow him around the house and then Andy will have two people (cats? cats and people?) following him around the house and refusing to let him do anything until he pays attention to him. 

And now Dan’s poking at his dimple and smirking at him as Andy smiles helplessly into his hands. 

Dammit, Derek.


	52. Marc/Dan; be mine, diver!

Marc should probably be less surprised to come in to the Bell Centre on valentine’s day to find his stall already occupied by flowers and a garishly pink box. He isn’t surprised about the flowers or the box itself, but its location indicates Dan has made an ally on the inside, either the roster or among the personnel. Which is also unsurprising, when Marc thinks about it.

The flowers are red and white, of course. The box contains at least half of the books on Marc’s Amazon wish list, which is private. The only person he shared the link with was his mother, as she dislikes guessing what he wants but won’t allow him to outright tell her, because she is a control freak. The idea that she is aiding and abetting Dan’s romantic streak is slightly disquieting. 

Attached to the box is a card, emblazoned with the Senators logo, reading ‘We Stand On Guard For Thee, Valentine’. Marc wasn’t even aware there were Senators Valentine’s cards. Is still rather sceptical. More likely than not some unfortunate graphic designer on staff got pulled into the shenanigans, judging from the lazy slogan and the fact that ‘Valentine’ has been crossed out and replaced with ‘Diver’. The inside is signed by what appears to be the entire Senators roster, minus Dan. If that’s his way of denying involvement, it’s a poor one: if he didn’t encourage them (Carruthers needs no encouragement, Marc’s well aware), he certainly condoned it.

Marc tapes the Valentine up on his stall.

"Does your guy offer lessons?" Grayson asks. "Because Ashley’s pissed I’m playing tonight and flowers didn’t work."

”I am playing tonight,” Marc points out.

"Yeah, but you’re pissy all the time, so he must have mad skillz," Grayson says. Marc can hear the ‘z’ in it, and he does not approve. 

Marc considers throwing a book at him, but he wouldn’t do that to the book. “Marry a hockey player,” he says.

"I’m not asking you for lessons,” Grayson says. “Hook me up, Lapointe, I want to learn your husband’s ways.”

"Terrific oral sex," Marc says blandly, turning back to his gear and smirking at the Senators logo as Grayson sputters and wanders off. It will have to come down when they play the Senators in a week’s time, but for now it can stay.


	53. Mike/Liam; Mike Brouwer Does Not Believe in Valentine's

Mike didn’t fully consider the implications of Liam retiring. Liam being constantly underfoot? That he fucking knew was coming, and was used to from offseasons. He steeled himself for that one. Liam mollycoddling, Liam with even more energy, which always seemed impossible until he didn’t have hockey to control his hyperactive impulses.

It hasn’t been as bad as the worst Mike prepared himself for. Liam’s still out doing shit with the North Stars, is happy, no, gleeful, to show up for kid’s workshops and charity things, has snuck his way onto a bench to coach a bunch of pee-wees, though from the way he’s telling it, he’s more of a cheerleader than anything. 

What Mike didn’t anticipate was that Liam would have plans. He probably should have. Plans, in this case, being Liam looking at him hopefully, ears metaphorically perked, like Bella when she heard the word ‘walk’. But Mike does give Bella walks, even when he’s exhausted, even when he doesn’t want to leave bed. Mike is not interested in this.

"It’s just dinner," Liam says. Mike isn’t sure if Liam’s perfected his puppy eyes from proximity with Bella, but they’ve definitely improved since he wore every play on his face at eighteen.

'Just dinner' is a bit of a step down from Liam's initial gambits. In order of Mike's refusals: Turks and Caicos on some drippy fucking couple's package; Aspen on some drippy fucking couple's package; a cruise off of Alaska on some drippy fucking couple's package. Alaska. In February. Mike appreciates his balls and not freezing them off. He thought Liam felt the same about them, but apparently not. Edmonton. No drippy fucking couple’s package, but Edmonton is a place to go in summer, if ever.

'Just dinner' is innocuous compared to the others, but Liam's face isn't exactly unknown in Minneapolis. He's not even a year out of playing, and he's basically universally loved; they go out to dinner and there's no fucking way no one's going to come up for an autograph and then go tell their friends Liam Fitzgerald was out to dinner on Valentine's with a man. Liam may not have his hockey career to consider now, but he’s been moonlighting for the local sports network, and they’re wooing him. 

Mike’s watched a bit, not that he’d admit it to Liam, and he’s good. Self-effacing, but he knows his shit, and the ‘aw shucks’ grin probably works as well on the audience as Mike, if not better. If they’re smart they’ll snatch him up for the studio, because he’s not liable to follow around the North Stars after leaving specifically because of the schedule. 

Going out to dinner on Valentine’s is being outed on Valentine’s, and he knows Liam doesn’t care, Liam has made it obvious in the last decade that he doesn’t care if Mike doesn’t, but Mike does. For Liam’s career, which he doesn’t have the self-preservation to protect, but also because this isn’t anyone’s business, him and Liam, this is his, and this is Liam’s, and that’s fucking it. Even if his mom likes to pretend it’s hers. 

"I don’t believe in Valentine’s Day," Mike says flatly.

"It exists," Liam says earnestly. 

"I don’t support Valentine’s Day," Mike revises.

Liam pouts. That one hasn’t improved since he was eighteen.

"Night in," Mike allows. "You help me cook. You can pick the movie." 

Liam looks considering, before he seems to realize that’s all he’s going to get. “I get to pick what we do in bed,” he bargains. 

Mike shrugs and nods. That’s no hardship. He likes what Liam likes. He likes Liam liking things. 

"I’m going to pick something awesome," Liam says, and wanders off, pleased as anything. Mike has a foreboding feeling. At least about the movie. The sex he’s sure he’ll be fine with.


	54. Gabe/Stephen; day off

Gabe is never going to be happy about being injured, sitting on the sidelines, but there’s nothing he can do about a broken finger, no conditioning he can do to speed up his return, when he’s fundamentally watching his finger heal like paint drying. He isn’t expecting—or asking for—Stephen’s sympathy, not with Stephen’s history, but maybe that was stupid of him, shortsighted, expecting too little, because Stephen is outright solicitous, even though Gabe still fundamentally has control of both hands (ring fingers are not necessary for most tasks, he’s learned, just useful), and Stephen still doesn’t have that.

If there’s one upside, they’re sitting pretty in the playoffs right now, so Gabe doesn’t feel crushingly guilty, and it’s the annual Insanely Long East Coast Trip, which Gabe isn’t all too sorry to miss. Instead he’s curled up on the couch with a blanket like he’s sick, and Stephen making popcorn in the kitchen. Vancouver’s in New York, who are skimming the top of the East, and could snatch the two points if the Canucks aren’t vigilant, but it’s out of Gabe’s hands, and Stephen’s doing the secret spice mix that he refuses to tell Gabe even for love (and when Gabe threatens to tell his mom about that time in tenth grade). 

Stephen hands the bowl of popcorn to his free grabby hand, kicking at his feet until he raises them enough for Stephen to slide under them, resting one hand on Gabe’s ankle under the blanket and opening his textbook with the other.

"4-2 loss," Stephen predicts without looking up. 

Gabe kicks his thigh and takes a vicious munch of the popcorn. 

"Just saying," Stephen says, reaching for the popcorn and pinching Gabe’s side when he blocks the grab.


	55. the sens idiots; giving a lap dance

"I dare you to give Riley a lap dance," Leon says.

Dan doesn’t know why they do these things. They never end well, and yet at the end of road trips, when they’re stir crazy and just want to go home, truth or dare inevitably erupts, because Dan is on a team with teenage girls. Olsen keeps letting it happen. Dan doesn’t know why Olsen keeps letting it happen. He thinks Olsen might be a bit of a sadist.

Andy goes the same shade of red as his shirt, and tries — and fails — to hide behind Derek, who has gone slightly stony-faced.

"Can’t Bowie give Cary a lap dance?" Dan whines. He’ll admit it, it’s absolutely a whine. Carruthers is ruthless and relentless about pranks, and nothing can set him off like anything to do with Bowie. Dan isn’t naive enough to think he’d get off just because Leon’s the shit-stirrer.

"We’ve all seen that shit," Leon says, and Bowie, if possible, goes redder.

Dan gives Leon a look. It says, when it’s your turn I’m going to make you do something mortifying with Olsen.

Leon narrows his eyes back. It says, I now regret this decision but I stand by it.

Dan’s fluent. He can’t speak French but fuck he knows passive-aggressive Quebecois. It’s like he married one.

"Let’s go, Bowie," Leon says, and Olsen backs it up with a wolf whistle. Dan despairs at the fact Olsen’s the most responsible person on this team. They need a minder.

"You’re all limbs, you should be able to make this work," Massa says, and Derek turns his glare, which has been steadily resting on Dan, over to him, which is sort of a relief.

"I hate all of you," Andy mumbles, so low Dan can barely pick it up even as Andy slings a leg over his hip. "Can’t you say diver will be mad?" Andy asks Dan lowly.

"He really won’t," Dan says back. "He’s going to laugh."

"I hate diver too," Andy mumbles, then louder, "I don’t have any music."

Carruthers contributes an 80s porno tune, because touchy and possessive he is, Dan thinks he’s physically incapable of not being a shit.

Andy glares at him over his shoulder, almost tipping back until Dan settles a hand on his hip.

"Work it," someone — it could be fucking anyone, these assholes suck — hoots.

"Sometimes I wish I still played for the Leafs," Dan says.

"That sounds nice," Andy mumbles, and tucks his face in Dan’s neck to hide before he starts to move his hips in the most awkward manner ever.


	56. Mike/Liam; sexting

_wat r u wering?_ Mike gets one morning. He glances at the clock, and it’s only noon on the East coast. Liam has a game tonight, so he isn’t drunk, and there is no fucking excuse.

_Clothing,_ Mike sends back, an hour later, and staunchly ignores the _:(_ he gets in return, because no fucking way.

_Lit it up!!!!_ he gets late that night, after he wakes up needing to piss and checks his phone by default on the way back to bed, half asleep. Another quick check confirms that, a 5-1 game and a goal and two assists for the kid. Lighting it up might actually be an understatement, which is an endangered species in Liam’s vocabulary.

_Nice work,_ he replies, because it was, because he’s awake enough now to know he isn’t going back to sleep, so he grabbed his laptop and watched Liam’s goal, which is scrambly as fuck, but a goal. One of his assists is much nicer, a no look pass that is kind of hot, when it comes down to it.

_i want a reward when im in minny,_ Liam replies within a minute.

_It was the Leafs,_ Mike replies, because he can’t help it.

_ur going 2 go down on me til ive got beard burn everywhere and then ur going 2 fuck me til i cant walk_

Mike is sad to say the text speak does not actually deter the erection. Liam has fucking ruined him.

_You alone?_ Mike sends

Liam calls about ten seconds later. “Hi,” Liam says, breathless like he’s finished a shift, or — other things that are more likely considering the context.

"You’re home," Mike says, surprised. There’s a distinct lack of background noise, and even if Liam wasn’t the flitty social butterfly he is, a three point night’s a three point night. You bask in that shit. He doesn’t know from personal experience, but he’s seen it enough.

"Yeah," Liam says. "Was horny."

They haven’t — they haven’t discussed shit since him and Liam met up, but the fact that Liam went home because he was horny, instead of went to find someone to quench that sends something hot down Mike’s spine, less arousal and more something he can’t define. Doesn’t want to.

"Sexting is for teenagers," Mike says. "You don’t even have the excuse of being a fucking teenager anymore."

"Did you call me just to swear at me?" Liam asks, taffy slow, and Mike just fucking knows he’s got a hand on himself. "Not that I mind, but—"

"Sexting is for teenagers," Mike firmly repeats. "You are a fucking grownup. Welcome to phone sex."


	57. Thomas Vincent & Anton Petrov; successfully turning the other on

Thirty seconds into the penalty kill, Anton’s stick breaks. Thirty five seconds in, he thinks his foot does, when he puts it in front of a one-timer. Maybe that’s dramatic, but his shot blocker definitely did not absorb the impact. Probably no skate can handle Bergen from the blue-line. He can’t feel his foot, numbness that will soon be spreading to pins and needles and he knows will be excruciating, but there’s another shot coming, and he sprawls in front of it before he can think, can’t actually get himself off the ice because he needs both feet to do it. They luck out, get a stoppage when a weak shot goes straight into Vincent’s glove, and Lapointe gives him a hand up, lets him lean heavily on his shoulder on the way back to the bench, the trainer waiting at the doors.

It’s a commercial break, and Vincent usually sticks by his net, doesn’t like to leave it, get out of that headspace, even when the shovels come out, but he skates over to the bench as Anton’s gingerly helped onto it, mitts dropped.

"Tony," he shouts, and Anton looks over. Vincent points at himself, makes a heart with his hands, and points at Anton, and Anton’s laughing as he’s helped to the dressing room.

He doesn’t go back. It’s not broken, but once they get his foot out of that skate, there’s no putting it back in, swelling up as fast as he can take a breath, and there were only seven minutes left when he went down the tunnel. He’s gritting his teeth against ice when the guys come filtering in, exuberant enough that he can tell it was a win, though they were up 3-0 when he left, so there’s no telling the score until he sees Vincent’s face.

Vincent obliges after awhile, ducking into medical with the ridiculous bear hat for the MVP on his head.

"Shutout," he announces, and takes the hat off his head, puts it on Anton’s. "That second one would have gone in," he tells Anton. "You are my favourite. You are my save percentage’s favourite."

Anton laughs, and Vinny kisses him on both cheeks, wanders out the room with a shimmy in his step, leaving the hat on Anton’s head.

He pops back in after a moment. “That was hot as fuck,” he says, blase, and wanders out again with that hop in his step. Anton watches his skinny ass all the way, and tugs the hat, itchy, off his head once Vinny’s gone.


	58. Gabe/Stephen; spanking

It’s stupid. They are supposed to be good at this sexual exploration thing, or at least, they have been so far. It’s hard to be self-conscious when they’ve seen as much of each other’s lives as they have, and Gabe’s recent stretch of road games is a pain in the ass (he is ignoring the pun, the pun never happened), but has left them with a lot of time drum up ideas, mostly disseminated in the dark, when Gabe’s on a hotel bed somewhere in the south, and Stephen’s curled in their bed. Phone sex, by the way, has been very successful.

This is not successful so far. This being Gabe staring, kind of struck, at the winter pale white of Stephen’s thighs, the curve of his ass, which is a very, very nice ass, he would like it to be known, and which is going to be warm pink. Gabe considers this.

“Gabriel, quit staring at my ass and do something,” Stephen says, muffled, and then knees Gabe’s thigh for good measure.

Gabe likes Stephen pink. Blushing, or flushed down his chest after they have sex, grumbling because he forgot to put sunscreen on and the sun loves his skin in direct corollary with his much his skin does not love the sun. Gabe likes seeing marks he’s left on Stephen, the beard burn he bitched about during the playoffs run, the red bloom his mouth leaves if he bares his teeth. By all rights, he should love this, and it sounded good in the dark, a hand down his shorts and Stephen’s voice a low murmur in his ear.

“Are you freaking out?” Stephen asks, and Gabe considers that for a minute before concluding that he might be.

“I might be,” Gabe confirms.

Stephen scoots up, tugs at Gabe until he tips his head against his shoulder. “What’s up?”

“Don’t think I’m going to be any good at hurting you,” Gabe says, realising it’s true as he says it, which is a little belated.

“Even if I ask for it?” Stephen asks.

Gabe shrugs. He doesn’t know if it’s within him to associate the sound of Stephen in pain with anything good. That might not have been the case a year ago, but it is now.

“Okay,” Stephen says, presses his mouth against Gabe’s temple. “Mood totally ruined?” he asks.

Gabe considers. “You want a blowjob?” he asks.

“You’re supposed to be the smart one,” Stephen says.


	59. Mike/Liam; spanking

Liam sprawls, limbs akimbo, taking over more than half thebed, nose nudging Mike’s thigh. He’s quiet, for once, hair curling damply, chest still hitching uneven breaths. His thighs are pink, ass a mottled red that Mike could feel the heat of without touching, knows will bruise. It’s a good fucking thing that it’s the offseason, not that Mike would go that far when Liam had to skate the next day. Sitting’s going to be an awkward proposition as it is tomorrow.

Mike slides a hand down Liam’s back, slow, back and forth movement, and Liam hums, lips parting against his skin in a kiss.

“You don’t actually have to piss me off to get me to do this,” Mike says.

“S’more fun,” Liam says contentedly. “You hit harder.”

He probably does. He likes to think he’s in control of himself, and he is, he absolutely is, he’d never fucking hurt Liam beyond the amount he wants to be hurt, and they both know it, but he probably does hit harder when Liam’s being a shit.

Mike raises his hand to run it through Liam’s hair. “You’re a little shit,” he tells him, because he was a fucking terror all afternoon, and Mike knew exactly what he wanted, that he wanted to be put over Mike’s knee until he sobbed, rutted against it, came with tears on his cheeks and his ass on fire, and he could have asked for it, could ask for it any time, and Mike would be happy to oblige, because he likes seeing Liam like this, likes seeing Liam get what he wants in general, and likes watching Liam fall apart under him. Likes putting his hands on him and watching him crack a little but bounce back even stronger. If Liam asked, Mike would do it, no question, but Liam likes to push Mike instead, drive him fucking crazy until his only thought is to put him on his knees and make him cry. Mike doesn’t much like that it’s his response to Liam being a brat, but lord knows Liam loves it.

“You love it,” Liam mumbles, which isn’t a lie.


	60. Andy, Derek, Dan; St. Patrick's Day

“St. Patrick’s Day,” Derek tells Andy solemnly when they wake up, leaning over Andy’s shoulder.

“Neither of us is Irish,” Andy mumbles into his pillow, but Derek is crazy about holidays, so he doesn’t think it’s going to go far. Andy’s still recovering from Pie Day, and that’s not even a real thing.

“St. Patrick’s Day,” Derek says after practice, muscling Andy’s thighs apart and standing between them. “Time to drink, Andy.”

“It’s noon,” Andy says.

“But it’s St. Patty’s Day,” Derek argues.

“Neither of us is Irish,” Andy points out again.

“I could be Irish,” Derek says. “And you’re a ginger.”

“Did they sail from Ireland to Argentina?” Andy asks sceptically. 

Derek sticks his tongue out at him, then gets a triumphant look on his face. “Riley’s Irish,” he says.

Dan looks up from his phone. “Like four generations back, dude.”

“Riley’s Irish,” Derek repeats, like Dan didn’t say anything.

“Riley’s not going day drinking,” Dan tells his phone.

*

“Why is this happening?” Dan asks.

“Because it’s Patty’s Day,” Derek says, “Three Irish Car Bombs! And green beer!”

“I’m pretty sure that’s super offensive,” Dan says.

“Why, it’s just green,” Derek argues.

Dan gives Andy a long-suffering look. Andy gives him one right back.

“Can we have lunch first?” Andy asks.

“And some Irish food!” Derek calls to the retreating waitress, before pinching Andy viciously.

“Ow, what did I do?” Andy asks.

“You’re not wearing green,” Derek says, then stares across the table at Dan.

“Don’t even try it,” Dan says, and ends up kicking Andy under the table when Derek leans over it.

Andy hates holidays.


	61. Vinny; Fournier's spawn

Fournier’s wife Chloe is one of Thomas’ favourite people. She talks fast and smiles a lot, touches Thomas’ arm whenever she’s trying to make a point, and shakes it if he isn’t listening intently enough. Her perfume smells nice, not flowery or overwhelming. She reminds Thomas of home.

Fournier insists she’s evil. Fournier also insists Thomas is evil, both directly to him and to the room in general. He insists his own daughters are evil. Thomas thinks it might be a term of endearment.

The twins _are_ evil, though. Not Thomas and Chloe. They’re great. So are the twins, but they are great and evil.

It’s family skate, so Thomas is on alert enough to hear quickly approaching pidgin French, the mostly incomprehensible chatter the girls share. He drops to his knees. Half the room turns and stares at him, but when Vanessa and Olivia come stampeding in, he is prepared.

“Uncle Vinny,” they shriek, and the whole room winces, but Thomas just opens his arms and lets them barrel into him.

Olivia keeps her head in his neck, suddenly shy, the way she is when she isn’t following Vanessa’s lead. Vanessa stares him right in the eye. “I saw you on TV,” she tells him.

“Yeah?” Thomas says. “How was I?”

“You’re not nearly as good as papa,” she tells him. Fournier, trailing into the room, already looks chagrined, since the girls are supposed to be with their mom and the rest of the mini-Habs. He throws Thomas an apologetic look.

“Vanessa,” he snaps.

Thomas shrugs loosely at Fourns. It’s true enough, and he hears it about ten thousand times a day from Montreal media. He thinks all seven year old Montreal kids know this. It’s probably in the curriculum. He’s just glad the entirety of the conversation has been in French, because oblivious Anton can’t lurk protectively, the way he always does when he thinks Thomas needs saving. It’d be kind of embarrassing if Anton started lurking over little girls. Thomas’ feelings don’t hurt that easy.

“You ready to skate?” Thomas asks.

“I want to skate with you,” Olivia mumbles into his neck.

“We want to skate with you,” Vanessa says, bossy, like it was her idea.

“Not me?” Fournier asks, striking a wounded pose behind the girls. The room is basically just openly staring at this point. To be fair, Fournier in the room is fairly no-nonsense and scares the shit out of the rookies. Fournier with his daughters pretends to be a dinosaur and then pretends to eat dinosaur Vinny. Dinosaur Vinny died a brave death. Herbivores never win.

“You’re boring,” Vanessa tells her father.

“I’ll skate with you, papa,” Olivia says quietly, and just as Fournier starts to look a little touched, “but only after we skate with Uncle Vinny.”

Fournier points at his eye and then at Thomas. Thomas puckers his lips back.

“Okay,” Thomas says. “Who needs help with their skates?”

Two sets of hands raise.

“Okay,” Thomas says. “Go get Uncle Tony, he’s the very best with skates.”

They both look at him skeptically. 

“And he has candy in his locker,” Thomas – well. It’s not a lie if he put candy in Anton’s locker earlier. Which he did.

“So evil,” Fournier says idly as the girls tumble into Anton. Tony looks absolutely terrified.

Thomas beams at him.


	62. Thomas/Anton; soulmark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Anton & Vinny, soulmark thing, where the first words you say to your soulmate after [some intimate experience, usually sex] are written on your skin. And Vinny is sort of resigned because he doesn't do sex, but he has words & when people talk about words the implication is they come after sex with the other person. (Obviously, Vinny & Anton don't have sex. The words are after some other kind of emotional, intimate experience. Winning the cup? IDEK.)

When Thomas’ words come in, his mom frowns. At eight, he doesn’t understand why, mostly frustrated with the fact they’re in English, which he doesn’t like very much and only gets Bs in.

Later, he kind of understands why “You’re a motherfucking beauty” is not the kind of thing his mom would approve of. 

*

Thomas goes to the Soo, and all anyone talks about is their words. Thomas doesn’t know if he just somehow missed all this back home, or if sixteen flipped a switch, or what. None of them have found their soulmate, though from the way most of them talk, they’re having sex like the more they do it the faster they’ll find the girl who says the right things at them.

Thomas doesn’t talk about it, and he keeps the words – curled around the inside of his arm – private, and everyone seems to just dismiss that as goalie weirdness, which is fine by Thomas.

The thing is, Thomas isn’t sure he wants to find his soulmate, because everyone knows how you find them. You have sex – or make love, in that case – and in the wake of it they say the words that have been tattooed on your body since childhood. The whole idea makes Thomas feel vaguely nauseated and very nervous, and he doesn’t think that’s the way he’s supposed to feel, unless everyone around him is a really good actor.

It’s inevitable, though. If he didn’t do anything about it, then there would be no words on his skin. There are people like that. They’re alternately pitied and seen as practically a higher species.

Thomas wishes he could rub the words right off of himself.

*

Thomas feels invincible. He trips going over the bench, and Carmen, laughing hysterically, has to help him up, but he doesn’t even feel it, enters the dogpile around Fourns and elbows everyone unrepentantly until he finds him, bumps his forehead against Fournier’s sweaty one.

An arm snakes around him from behind, and Thomas knows who it is without looking, leans back, the rim of Anton’s visor bumping the back of his head.

“You’re a motherfucking beauty,” Anton says, and Thomas has a moment to idly think it’s praise he doesn’t exactly deserve because he played a sum total of zero minutes and just functioned as Fourns’ excitable moral support, before the import of the words catches up.

If he hadn’t just won the Stanley Cup this would basically be the best moment of his life, but he did, so. Best day of his life.

“I just sat on the bench,” Thomas argues, rote, and Anton’s arm tightens hard enough that Thomas can feel it. “Oh my god,” Thomas says, laughing giddily. “You have the weirdest words.”

“Right?” Anton says, “should have fucking known it was you, you giant weirdo.”


	63. Mike/Liam; university AU

“Yo,” Mike hears. He’s got his back to the bar, mixing a Manhattan for a snotty frat boy who probably thinks it makes him sound refined. Mike considers drinking the Manhattan, because he fucking needs it. He just puts four maraschino cherries in, instead of the one, and gives it to the frat guy, smiling with teeth.

Frat guy looks exactly the way Mike suspected – like he had no fucking clue what he was ordering, and his bros start teasing him for the ‘girl drink’ right away.

“Yooo,” Mike hears. Heaven fucking help him.

“Shirley Temple?” he asks, not looking in Liam’s direction.

“Sure,” Liam says brightly, “can I have extra cherries?”

“No,” Mike says flatly. He doesn’t even need to look over to know Liam’s pouting.

“Bartenders are supposed to be friendly,” Liam tells him, still bright. “Like, you tell them your problems, and they listen, and maybe call you a cab.”

“Bartenders are supposed to be able to mix drinks,” Mike says, and goes to make Liam his stupid virgin drink.

“Yeah,” Liam says. “But you won’t make me drinks. Even though I’m nineteen. So you kind of suck.”

“You’re like twelve,” Mike mutters. He knows Liam’s nineteen – sure, he didn’t buy it when Liam came in the first time, but he’s been in enough times since, and no one else has any problem serving him. Claire’s from Nova Scotia, so Mike figures she probably knows what a fake ID from there looks like better than he does. He knows Liam’s nineteen. He’s going to continue to pretend Liam’s an infant for the sake of his own sanity, though. Also because Liam acts like a fucking infant.

He puts a couple extra cherries in the Shirley Temple, even though at this rate Liam’s going to overdose on sugar. He slides it over, pretends he doesn’t see Liam beaming at him.

“Mike,” Liam starts, and Mike knows what’s fucking coming, it’s the same thing that comes at least once a week. Mike serves Liam something non-alcoholic, Liam giggles like it’s an inside joke they have, and then Liam brightly propositions Mike and Mike flatly turns him down, because Liam may not be twelve, but Mike was nineteen once. Nineteen year olds are morons.

“Fitzy,” Mike hears from down the bar, and Liam’s ears practically prick up. “Stop drinking that shit and help with the pitcher, fuck man.”

The guys at the end of the bar look almost as frat bro-like as the idiot who’s abandoned his Manhattan. Makes sense – Liam plays varsity, and Mike knows the culture from the one year he played for the hockey team before he blew his shoulder and his scholarship with it. Most of them leave shitty tips. Not Liam, but that’s because Liam’s either trying to get in Mike’s pants or playing the most extended game of gay chicken Mike’s ever seen.

“Your audience awaits,” Mike says, and Liam sighs overdramatically, but slides off the bar stool.

Mike doesn’t watch his ass as he walks away, because Mike has self-control and pride. Except he does, because Liam’s a soccer player wearing skinny jeans and Mike’s a fucking human. 

*

“Dude,” Luke says. “Are you still after that Neanderthal bartender?”

Ben hushes him immediately, but Liam just rolls his eyes.

“That’s a big word, Elder Morris,” Joe says idly. “You learn it all yourself?”

Luke gives Joe the finger, then nudges Liam’s knee with his own. “Seriously,” Luke says. “Easier ways to get laid.”

Joe and Ben both groan.

“What?” Luke asks.

“Stop hitting on the muppet,” Joe says.

“He was staring at your ass,” Jake says.

“Luke’s always staring at his ass,” Joe says, and Luke gives him the finger with more feeling.

“No,” Jake says. “Grumpy bartender. He was totally staring at your ass when you came over.”

Liam starts beaming, and Luke shoots Jake a look, betrayed. Jake just shrugs unapologetically back. “He was,” Jake says.

“Like a lot of staring?” Liam asks. “Or like–”

“Joe,” Ben says loudly. “How’s your girlfriend?”

“Awesome,” Joe responds, just as loudly. “Her film prof invited her to this seminar next semester, they only take like ten people.”

“What kind of seminar?” Liam asks, as easy to distract as – Luke can’t think, what are those things that are easy to distract? Goldfish? Goldfish! He leans forward in his seat, and Luke stares sadly at his ass. He should probably stop hanging out with university students, but. It’s Ben. Also Liam’s ass. He can’t blame the grumpy bartender for looking, it’s a fantastic ass.

He looks over at the bartender. He isn’t paying attention, but when he looks up, Luke tries to express his understanding of the inconvenience of Liam’s ass with him.

The bartender glares back at him.

Whatever.


	64. Thomas/Anton; that time in Hartford

“We could drive to Hartford faster than this,” Anton says between gritted teeth.

Considering it’s a five hour drive and they’ve already been at the airport for three and a half hours, Thomas is inclined to agree. That’s not really why Anton’s pissed, though. He’s been on edge since Thomas picked him up, and has snapped at Thomas three times already, which is something Thomas is used to seeing, not being on the receiving end of.

The longer they wait the more people recognise them. On the bright side, Anton’s been nice to the people who’ve gotten the nerve up to come over, mostly kids and a few people wearing Habs caps or shirts. On the less bright side, Anton’s only been snippier since the last guy, who said he was the biggest Habs fan alive, but didn’t seem to recognise Thomas and walked away with only Anton’s autograph. Thomas knows Anton’s mad on his behalf, but right now that’s kind of the same as being mad at Thomas, since he’s the only person Anton can go off on.

Thomas really wishes they’d driven, right now. He likes driving with Anton. Anton flat out refuses to let him drive, and he has some very controlled road rage that seems to involve threats toward every driver in his way but a reasonable driving speed, and he lets Thomas pick the music. He’s vetoed Thomas singing along, which is his loss, but all in all, five hours in a car with Anton doesn’t sound all that bad.

Five hours in an airport with Anton might make Thomas cry.

“I have to call my mother,” Anton says.

“You already told her the flight’s delayed,” Thomas says.

“Yeah,” Anton says. “Two hours ago.”

“I’m sure she’ll just check the arrivals online,” Thomas says.

“You don’t know my mother,” Anton snaps.

Thomas does, actually. Not incredibly well, he’ll admit, but he’s spent time with her, and also she’s the one who sends Anton articles about himself and the Habs, so Thomas is reasonably certain that she is capable of using the internet. Probably better than Anton, even.

He does not say that, however, because he knows Anton would just get mad at him, and since Thomas has to spend a flight and then a week with him, he thinks it’s not a good idea. He bets Tonya’s checking the airport website though.

Anton’s stepped away to make the call, leaving Thomas with the bags and a few people speculatively eyeing him like they must know him from somewhere. He comes stomping back less than five minutes later, and Thomas would put money on the fact his mom just told him she’d been checking arrivals.

He is not dumb enough to say that out loud either.

They call boarding soon after that, and Thomas pretends to sleep while Anton angrily arranges himself. Anton seems to buy it, because Thomas does basically fall asleep in every moving vehicle, and it’s true soon enough, because Thomas wakes up to the plane descending.

Tonya and Vladimir are waiting in arrivals. “Were you waiting long?” Anton asks, after his mother his pressed kisses to both his cheeks, and then to both of Thomas’, and Vladimir has hugged Anton and shaken Thomas’ hand.

Tonya just laughs and shakes her head at him. Thomas really likes her, because she reacts to Anton exactly the way he does, or he’d like to. He doesn’t laugh at Anton too much. Anton gets defensive and angry, and Thomas thinks it hurts his feelings, which he doesn’t want to do. He’s just so serious about everything it makes Thomas smile.

Just as Anton’s starting to bristle, Tonya says, “I drove your car here,” and then he deflates all at once. Anton nudges Thomas’ side.

“Yes we can go in your ridiculous car,” Thomas says, and Anton smiles at him for the first time all day.

Anton’s car in Montreal is pretty ridiculous itself, but he at least got something that wouldn’t spin out on Montreal’s slushy streets, snow tires or not. Thomas has only seen pictures of Anton’s other car, which he shows with as much pride as some of the other guys show their own kid’s pictures. It makes no sense for Hartford, either, but Anton’s only there during the offseason, and Thomas does like putting on a pair of sunglasses and letting the wind destroy his hair on the way back to Anton’s house, Anton driving too fast and smiling just wide enough.

They had to load their suitcases up in Anton’s mom’s car, because there was no way his car was going to fit either of them, and apparently Anton’s house keys are in his suitcase, so they sit on the front stoop of what Vinny is going to call a mansion, at least in his head, because all he said is, “That’s…big.” when they pulled up, and Anton had grunted and said, “I guess.”, so Thomas thinks maybe he should drop it.

Thomas is kind of figuring out where Tony got his taste in cars, though.

The carefree grinning Anton disappears again when his parents arrive, and doesn’t seem to be appearing again any time soon. Anton hasn’t loosened at dinner, where they eat really delicious chicken mostly silently. Thomas is used to eating with teammates, so silence is weird and unsettling.

“Can you pass me the wine, Tommy?” Tonya asks, and Thomas passes it to her.

“He doesn’t like being called Tommy,” Anton snaps.

Thomas glances over at him. “It’s fine, Tonya, I don’t mind.”

“That’s not true,” Anton says. “He does mind. Don’t call him that.”

“Anton,” Thomas says sharply and Anton’s chair scrapes away from the table.

Ten seconds later the door to Anton’s room closes. Okay, it slams. Anton slams the door. Thomas pokes at his chicken.

Vladimir says something in Russian to Tonya, and she laughs.

“I really don’t care if you call me Tommy,” Thomas says meekly.

“Ah, but Antosha does,” she says. Thomas looks up at her, and she smiles back, not looking remotely bothered. Right. She dealt with Anton when he was a teenager. He was probably a nightmare. Anton now is about a billion times easier to deal with than he was at eighteen, and Thomas says that as someone he thinks is pretty patient. “Does he call you that?”

“No,” Thomas says. “He knows I don’t like it. Not that I – I mean, it really is okay if you call me Tommy.”

“That’s fine, Thomas,” she says, still smiling.

“Sorry. I’m going to bring him his dinner,” Thomas mumbles, embarrassed, and takes his plate and Anton’s. “Dinner was really delicious.”

“Thank you,” she says, and Thomas retreats up the stairs. He’s got two plates in one hand and cutlery in the other, so he knocks on Anton’s door with his elbow.

“Tony,” he says. “Can I come in?”

The silence from inside feels angry.

“I brought chicken,” Thomas adds.

“You can come in,” he hears, muffled, like Anton’s saying it into his pillow, and Thomas’ chest squeezes tight for a second, unfamiliar and frightening. If he has a pick a moment, after, when it all got complicated, he’d probably point at this one, but right now all he tries to do is figure out how to turn the knob with his hands full. He manages, two knives between his teeth, and Anton starts laughing at him the moment he opens the door.


	65. Marc and the Sens

Andy knows Dan spends a decent amount of time with the Habs. He refers to some of them fondly, which is weird and kind of scary, but typical Dan. Last week a Leafs fan started off by yelling at him on the street for somehow ruining the Leafs and ended up asking for a picture and telling Dan he was happy that he was happy. It was weird, and Derek and Andy had gone from defensive to confused to lost while Dan somehow made a fan.

So Dan spends time with the Habs, and everyone tolerates it because Olsen said it’s fair game except during the playoffs, but Lapointe’s never really done the same thing. Andy’s met him a couple times, exchanged a few sentences and all, but that’s about it. When Lapointe’s in Ottawa, Dan ducks out on anything social, and everyone makes sex jokes and then leaves him to it, because like, if Andy lived two hours away from Derek, he would probably not handle it as well as Dan seems to.

Tonight they win in sudden death, and everyone’s in a good mood about it, making plans to meet for drinks, because they’ve been on a losing streak, and taking it to the Habs is the best way to break that. Lapointe’s lurking outside the room when Andy and Derek leave, tasked with holding the table for everyone else. He’s scowling.

“Riley,” Derek calls back into the room. “It’s your lover!”

He kind of draws out the word, and rolls the ‘r’, like it’s a French word. Lapointe scowls deeper, and Andy honestly can’t blame him, because that was bad. Like, Leon would have hit Derek for it bad, and Olsen would have let him. Derek couldn’t have done ‘amor’ or something? Andy knows Derek knows French, and he’s fluent in Spanish, so it’s just kind of embarrassing for everyone involved. Like Andy. Andy’s embarrassed for all of them.

Dan pops his head out, hair damp. “Gimme a minute,” he says. “Want to come in?”

Lapointe says nothing, but he must have a look or something, because Dan laughs. “Yeah, okay,” he says.

Andy gives Lapointe an awkward wave, and lets Derek drag him to the car. They don’t have to wait long for guys to start trickling in to the bar, and Andy didn’t expect to see Dan, so he’s surprised when he shows up, and shocked when Lapointe trails in afterward.

“I lost a bet,” Lapointe says, in response to a question from Leon, which Andy figures is ‘what the hell are you doing here, diver?’

“Ooh,” Derek says, scrambling out of his seat and going over to Lapointe. Andy preemptively puts his face in his hands. “What was the bet? Was it a sexy bet? Riley, hey, was it a sexy bet?”

Andy refuses to take his face out of his hands.

“Our sex life is none of your business,” Lapointe says, overlapping Dan’s, “fuck off, Cary,” and Derek makes a gleeful noise.

Andy has experience with sexy bets, because Derek turns freaking everything into a competition. Andy has washed a lot of dishes. Never had to drink with the enemy, though, except at Dan’s wedding, and that was more of a competition than hanging out or anything.

Dan and Lapointe take a spot by Olsen and Leon, and Derek comes back to sit by Andy and behave, right until Andy comes back from the bathroom and he’s stolen Olsen’s spot, looking guilty.

“When did that happen?” Lapointe’s snapping at Dan, who’s looking sheepish, and Andy meets Derek’s eye. Derek looks even more guilty. This is definitely his fault.

“It wasn’t a big deal,” Dan says, and then when Lapointe says something too low to hear, “C’mon, Marc, it’s just the typical bullshit.”

Derek tries to sneak back to his seat, but he accidentally knees a chair and has to hop the rest of the way, everyone looking at him except Lapointe and Dan.

“What did you do,” Andy hisses.

“I was just telling him why the Habs are evil,” Derek says. “How was I supposed to know Dan didn’t tell him about the Mayer shit?”

“You were just telling him why the Habs were evil,” Andy repeats.

“Well when you say it like that it makes me sound like a jerk,” Derek mutters.

Andy stares at him. “Does it?” he asks.

“Oh shut up,” Derek mutters. “You guys are going to make me apologise, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Olsen says from behind them, and they both jump. “Yes we are.” 

“I hate the goddamn Habs,” Derek mumbles, and Andy pats his shoulder.


	66. Jaya Singh & Charlie Lapointe; the start

Jaya meets her in the sixth grade. She’s new, and it’s a small enough school that everyone knows each other, or at least each other’s names. She has long blonde hair and blue eyes, looks like half the girls in Jaya’s class, except she’s wearing a Habs shirt, which is enough to make Jaya gravitate towards her.

Simon goes up to the girl first at recess, while Jaya’s getting up the courage, because he does that.

“I like your shirt,” he says, “I’m Simon.”

“I’m Charlie,” she says. “Thanks! My father played for them.”

Simon looks back at the kids hanging around him, because he always has kids hanging around him. “Right,” he says, drawn out, and the kids around him start laughing. “Mine too.”

“Oh yeah, which player?” Charlie asks, and the kids start laughing harder.

“Monsieur Imaginaire,” he says, which isn’t even funny, but everyone’s in hysterics.

Charlie’s face drops, and she walks away fast, goes to sit on a bench while Simon calls out, through laughter, “Charlie’s not a girl’s name!”

Jaya walks to the bench after a minute, pretends she doesn’t see Charlie swiping at her eyes as she approaches.

“Which player was your dad?” she asks.

“Jokes aren’t funny the second time,” Charlie says.

“But really,” Jaya says.

“Marc Lapointe,” Charlie mumbles.

Jaya doesn’t really remember Lapointe that much from when he was playing, but they show him during the home games sometimes and her dad still teases her to this day because apparently she cried when he retired.

“I’m Jaya,” she says. “My favourite player’s Cormier.”

Charlie scoffs. “He’s overrated,” she says. “And he always teases me.”

“He blocks the most shots in the entire NHL,” Jaya argues.

“Yeah,” Charlie says. “And tips them in all the time. You want to sit down?”

“Sure,” Jaya says.

*

Everyone figures out pretty quickly that Charlie was telling the truth: her last name’s Lapointe, after all, and Marc Lapointe picking her up from school in a car even Jaya, who knows nothing about cars, thinks was really expensive, seals the deal. Simon tries to win her over after that, but it doesn’t work. Simon’s mean, and popular, and Jaya doesn’t understand why, so she gets a bit of pleasure out of it, Charlie laughing in his face when he asks if she wants to hang out.

Everyone wants to hang out with Charlie, but at the end of the week, Charlie asks if she wants to come to a preseason game on Saturday. “My papa has to work, but he lets us sit in the box with him if we’re quiet,” she says. “Leon never wants to come, so there’s room.”

“Yes,” Jaya says, almost before Charlie’s finished talking.

Jaya doesn’t even have to beg. Her dad laughs halfway through her pitch. “You might cry like when he retired if I say no,” he says.

“That joke is so old,” Jaya tells him.

“It’s never old,” he argues. He drops her off at the address Charlie gave her mid-afternoon. It isn’t a giant mansion, like Jaya half-expected, but it’s still pretty big, makes her feel a little self-conscious when she’s ringing the doorbell, looking nervously back at her dad, waiting in the car. She’s thankful her mom’s working, at least, or she would have come along and gone to the door with Jaya, making sure to introduce herself like Jaya’s still a little kid. 

She hopes Charlie’s the one to answer it, and she hears pounding footsteps before the door’s ripped open. “Hi,” Charlie says, dragging her in, and Jaya barely has time to wave goodbye to her dad. “My papa’s at the rink, but Justine’s going to pick us up on her way to the game.”

“Justine?” Jaya asks.

“Oh,” Charlie says. “Cormier’s wife. She’s pretty nice. You speak decent French.”

“Yes?” Jaya says.

“Good,” Charlie says. “Her English is terrible.”

“Not nice to insult people’s abilities,” Jaya hears called from a room away.

“You can’t,” Charlie calls back. “Your French is terrible.”

“Fatiguant toi,” gets called back.

“That’s like, the only French he knows,” Charlie tells Jaya conspiratorially. “He uses it all the time.”

“I heard that,” is said dryly from the doorway, and Charlie jumps half a foot.

“You must be Jaya,” he says. “I’m Dan.”

Jaya feels kind of uncomfortable calling him that, but she’s pretty sure she can’t call him Mr. Lapointe, and while she looked him up before she came today, she’s totally forgotten his last time.

“Hi,” she says, shaking the offered hand, trying to make sure her handshake’s firm. She thought her dad was pretty tall, but he’s gigantic.

“Charlie says you like the Habs,” Dan says.

“She plays D like I do,” Charlie tells him.

“Maybe you’ll play in the same league,” Dan says.

“I told you I don’t want to change leagues,” Charlie snaps.

“We’re not driving to Brossard during rush hour four times a week, Charlie,” Dan says.

Jaya shifts, uncomfortable.

“Because papa’s job is too important,” Charlie says, rolling her eyes.

“You have company,” Dan says mildly. “It was nice to meet you, Jaya, are you okay with pizza for dinner?”

“He can’t make anything else,” Charlie mutters to Jaya.

“Heard that too,” Dan says.

“That’d be great,” Jaya says quickly.

“Show Jaya your room?” Dan asks, and Charlie half drags Jaya up the stairs.

“Sorry about that,” Charlie says. “My dad’s kind of embarrassing.”

“He seems really nice,” Jaya says tentatively.

“Yeah,” Charlie says. “Right until he’s making me change leagues.”

“Maybe we’d end up on the same team,” Jaya says.

“I’m AAA,” Charlie says dismissively.

“Me too,” Jaya says.

Charlie turns to look at her, eyes big. “Really?,” she asks. “Okay. This is my room. It’s a room. Come outside and play shinny? Just don’t, like, take it personally if I win.”

Charlie doesn’t win.


	67. Mike/Liam; meet the parents

It starts after Liam wins the Cup. Mike spends a brutal few weeks in Detroit. Liam’s stressed as anything and that makes him about as hyperactive as he was at eighteen, and going to the games is a nightmare, an absolute fucking nightmare, unimaginable noise and lights. He doesn’t throw up at the Joe, but once he does put his head between his knees, fighting nausea, while Liam’s mom tentatively rubs his back and Mike resists the urge to shrug her off even though she’s making it worse.

That’s the other thing: Liam’s fucking parents come down. That’s not a surprise, their kid’s in the Stanley Cup Finals, of course they do. They’re staying in a hotel, so it could be worse, but they make Mike uncomfortable. He’s pretty sure it’s mutual, because he’s closer in age to them than he is to Liam, and as much as they all pretend not to know that, well. They all know it.

But the point is, Liam wins the Cup, Mike returns home while Liam’s throwing his liver up with the rest of his team, and his mother asks about when she’s going to meet ‘that Liam boy’.

She has met Liam. Mike is very patient in reminding her that. Her retort is that a few hours isn’t meeting, which is pretty definitely wrong, not that Mike’s saying that out loud, because he’s not a moron, or at least not a big enough one to correct his mother.

It’s a few weeks later when Liam comes down, times his travel so he spends Canada Day in Halifax and then gets to wriggle excitedly about the Fourth of July, which is ridiculous. He rambles about sparklers (he’ll probably burn his eyebrows off, knowing him), and potato salad (Mike’s German potato salad is admittedly very good), and buying a shitton of fireworks (still not actually legal, but nice try). He spent last Fourth of July in St. Paul, which Mike’s mother was present for, so fucking much for not meeting, and his excitement hasn’t diminished, so Mike’s resigned to it being a permanent thing.

Mike’s mother is still harping at him about Liam, so Mike wearily asks if Liam’s up to going to Duluth for a couple days. He’s not expecting Liam to say no, honestly, he just really wants him to.

“For sure,” Liam says. “Can we bring potato salad?”

Mike makes potato salad, cursing his entire life. Liam’s the one behind the wheel when they leave the next morning, even though his driving hurts Mike in the soul, and even more when it’s his truck, but he drives as little as possible, and short distances. Two hours sounds like hell. 

It isn’t too bad, even though Liam picks the music. Liam’s tan, hair gone lighter with the sun, freckles on his cheeks and arms the way Mike’s learned they always come in the summer. Mike watches the flex of his forearms as he shimmies in his seat, which he’d had to spend about five minutes adjusting before he could reach the gas, while Mike smirked in his direction. He sings along to some pop song on the radio that sounds like the one before it, and the one before that. Mike’s getting old, hell, Mike’s been old, and Liam is wearing a backwards cap without an ounce of irony, and somehow fucking pulling it off.

They get in around noon, and Mike’s mom meets them at the door.

“We brought potato salad,” Liam tells her.

“He was zero help,” Mike says.

“I supervised,” Liam argues.

If you consider making a game of how goddamn much you can get underfoot before potato salad doesn’t happen to be supervising, then yes, Liam supervised.

“Liam, you want a beer?” his mom asks. She looks over at Mike, blink and you’d miss it, and Liam does the same thing before he answers. Mike’s jaw clenches.

“If you’re having one, Lori,” Liam says finally. He called her ‘Mrs. Brouwer’ when he met her, and Mike winced so hard on his behalf he thought he pulled something.

She gets them both beers, and makes Mike dish them out some potato salad and make some sandwiches with cold cuts. It’s better him in the kitchen than her, even just sandwiches.

“Where’s Tom?” Mike asks around two, when they’ve gravitated outside and Mike’s tried mostly successfully not to drowse in the heat while his mom got Liam’s life story. He’d be impressed, but you could probably ask Liam for the time and get it. Tom’s often late, but considering he lives ten minutes away instead of two hours, this is a little pathetic, and Mike wants a buffer between Liam and his mom. Amber will talk her ear off, Liam will end up playing cars with Sam, and Tom and Mike can roll their eyes at each other. Tom better hurry the fuck up. 

“They went to the lake house,” his mother says. “Have you been, Liam?”

Mike narrows his eyes at her. Considering the cabin is Mike’s, he suspects she has something to do with this, because usually the only time Tom heads there is when him and Mike go together.

“Nope,” Liam says. “Mike says it’s ‘guy time’.”

It is guy time. Mike knows Liam. He’d last maybe half an hour fishing before he got bored. There’s no wifi or cable and the reception’s for shit. He’d go out of his mind and he’d take Mike with him.

Mike’s mother still narrows her eyes at him. Mike looks back unapologetically.

“Made too much potato salad then,” Mike says. “Could have told me.”

“I’ll eat it,” Liam volunteers eagerly, unhelpful.

Liam does end up eating a second serving of potato salad, and Liam and his mom have moved on to Liam’s Juniors years by the time the sun and laziness get to Mike and he takes a nap on the lounge chair. The sun hasn’t moved much when he comes up, so they should still be on Juniors.

“Think you’ll stay with Detroit next season?” his mother asks.

That is not fucking Juniors.

Mike and Liam have not been discussing it. Which is to say that Liam keeps trying to bring it up, and Mike shuts it down, because that is a choice he can’t be involved in.

“They won’t have the cap space,” Liam says. “My agent’s asking around, but I’ll probably stay in the conference.”

The right decision would be to go east; Western Conference hockey’s more physical, and a kid Liam’s size would play better where his size was less of a detriment. His best season was in the Eastern, and was the whole reason Detroit made a deal to get him.

“Considering the North Stars?” his mom asks, and Mike should shut this the fuck down because that is none of her business, but he doesn’t.

Liam’s quiet. “Yeah,” he says, finally. “Definitely considering them.”

Mike thinks it’s about goddamn time he wakes up.

*

Mike makes dinner so Liam doesn’t just eat potato salad for every meal, and his mom and Liam go back and forth on going to see the fireworks, but by the time dusk rolls around Liam’s half asleep on the couch and his mom doesn’t look much more awake. Liam’s got a sunburn along his nose and cheeks. Idiot still doesn’t believe sunscreen applies to him. What kind of Irish kid doesn’t believe in sunscreen?

Mike watches the news with Liam slumped against him, and steadfastly ignores the look his mom sends him.

“Want me to make up the couch now?” she asks.

“I got it,” Mike says, and nudges Liam until he goes to sit at the kitchen table, eyes still half shut.

“You boys sleep well then,” Mike’s mom says, pats Mike’s shoulder as she walks by.

Mike makes up the couch, steering Liam over to it. Liam obediently gets into bed, and Mike follows, shutting the lights off.

“I just realized something,” Liam says after a minute, sounding awake. Of course the second you turn out the light he’s awake, because he is apparently a toddler. “Mike, hey.”

Mike grunts. 

“You didn’t swear once,” Liam says, sounding awed.

“Who the fuck swears in front of their mother?” Mike asks.

“Not _once_ ,” Liam says, then, “I like your mom.”

“She likes you,” Mike says, and then to a doubtful noise from Liam, “seriously, she doesn’t like you, you’d know it.”

“Good,” Liam says, then shifts closer. Mike thinks it was supposed to be subtle, but the springs creak with every move. “Guess we’re not having sex on this bed,” Liam says.

“Not a fucking chance,” Mike agrees.


	68. Vladimir & Alexei, coming West

Alyosha prefers Vladimir on the other side of the continent. It is not a slight against him; Alyosha likes him well enough. Likes him quite a bit, actually. He has a wry sense of humour and an uncanny intelligence; he knows where the puck will be when it’s fifteen feet away from him.

That is exactly the problem.

The Canucks’ first game against the new, improved Oilers, they’re shut out. The Hartford fanbase had dubbed him ‘Vlad the Impaler’ when he arrived, and Edmonton’s taken up the chant. It is a trite, obvious nickname, and certainly one better suited for a forward, if anyone, but watching the time slowly tick away, throwing everything they have at Vladimir and having that everything stopped, it does feel rather like a slow death. They play well, they play very well, and they still lose.

Alyosha likes Vladimir better on the other side of the continent, and likes him much better when they’re on the same team. The room feels airless after the game, everyone quiet, Vanier more than anyone. He stopped 30 of the 31 shots he faced, and the line of his mouth is tight enough that Julien, who would usually wander over in Franco solidarity, instead stays where he is.

They’re out quickly, everyone off to lick their wounds, because that was an important game, so close to the playoffs, and Vancouver’s hovering on the cusp of contention. Even so, when Alyosha leaves, Vladimir’s already outside of the room. Jules, practically on his heels, nearly stumbles into him.

“Alyosha,” Vladimir says, mouth tipping up.

“Volodya,” Alyosha says. “Come to torture us?”

“You specifically,” Vladimir says. “Dinner?”

“Winner buys,” Alyosha says, looks over at Julien, who blinks in response and then continues to make his way out of the Coliseum.

“At some point you have to start letting people score,” Alyosha complains over dinner. “Perhaps then the Whalers could have afforded to keep you.”

Vladimir frowns, and Alyosha feels bad immediately. “Has your family arrived yet?”

Vladimir stabs at his food with his fork. “They’re not coming,” he says.

Alyosha looks at him. “Pardon?” he asks.

“They have lives,” Vladimir says. “Friends. Work. School. Tatiana’s parents are in New York. Who knows how long I will be here?”

“Tatiana is fine with this?” Alyosha asks.

“She agrees with me. Right now she has her hands full with Anton,” Vladimir says. “He’s got games and practices every day of the week. His coach says he’s a prodigy.”

“Goaltender?” Alyosha asks.

“Defence,” Vladimir counters. Alyosha makes a face, and Vladimir makes it right back.

“Sorry you got traded,” Alyosha says finally.

“Of course you are,” Vladimir says. “Now you have to play me.”

“Sorry your head’s so big,” Alyosha adds.

Vladimir waves him off. He’s earned it, honestly. The gold was only obtainable because he shut Canada down the way no one else could, left Alyosha and the others with the opportunity. Watching Canada slip from cockiness to shellshock was fun, mostly, though Alyosha couldn’t look Jules in the eye when they met in the handshake line.

“Tell me what’s new in your life,” Vladimir says, finally.

“There’s nothing to tell,” Alyosha says.

“You have to settle down eventually, Alyosha,” Vladimir says.

“I know,” Alyosha says, and he can’t look Vladimir in the eye either.


	69. Thomas/Anton, Marc/Dan; a Sen among Habs

Lapointe brings his boyfriend around. Then his husband.

Same person! They just got married during the All-Star weekend, Lapointe actually turning down the gig. Apparently he was willing to take the one game suspension, but the NHL balked at the bad publicity suspending a player for marrying his husband would provide. Thomas went home over the break, but a bunch of the Habs went to Toronto, and Bovard has let everyone know that a Leaf insulted their manhood, and that they drank said Leaf, and associated Senators into the ground.

Thomas isn’t so good at framing things.

He remembers the greeting Riley got. The whole room went sour, everyone missing Bruno and his sunny smiles, Thomas included. It didn’t help that every time Riley’s line was on the ice, Thomas went tense, because they were a sieve. Thomas was in his rookie year, trying to prove himself, and they never helped.

Thomas didn’t dislike Riley when he came to Montreal, but he knows he’s in the minority there. He didn’t like having him there either, and it was a relief when they got Bruns back, but he never took it personally or anything, and having a forward like Lapointe gives you a cushion to work with. They lost guys, and it sucked and Thomas hated it, but he’s pretty sure their roster got better, and he knows that’s what matters to management and fans.

It seems like most of the guys have forgotten the greeting they gave Riley, or if not, really hope Riley forgot. Lapointe’s universally respected around the room, he has skills to pay the bills, and Thomas will keep saying that no matter how much Fourns mocks him for it, but he’s kind of prickly. Like a cactus. Thomas is totally used to it, even if Lapointe is a different kind of prickly than Anton and can actually string together sentences in French so Thomas can’t crack jokes at him he doesn’t understand, but when Riley shows up without the burden of a spot in the roster attached to him, most of the team likes him, even if he’s a Sen.

Thomas likes him. He’s a pretty nice guy, for a Toronto kid, and he doesn’t get defensive when the guys get on the Sens in front of him, only when they start dissing teammates of his, which Thomas is pretty sure was just testing him. He smiles a lot. Thomas doesn’t have a huge impression of him, because Lapointe’s got his guys, and Thomas runs when Lapointe approaches. That’s their thing! No Riley included.

But he’s around

Fournier’s welcoming, because Riley’s never scored a goal on him, and Fourns likes those guys best. Lapointe has, as a Leaf, so Fourns may like Riley better, even. They played the Sens yesterday, and won, so everyone’s friendly enough to Riley, even the sternest Sens haters and Bruno, who has more right than anyone to dislike him, since he spent some time in Hamilton as a result of that trade.

Thomas likes Hamilton, sometimes better than he likes Montreal, which is loud and often too fast for him, too big, but he knows he’s in the minority there. He wouldn’t want to go back for anything, not even being the uncontested number one. Fournier’s a good guy to stand behind, and him and Anton have finally found a restaurant they both love. They never found one of those in Hamilton.

Thomas loves Fourns’ family too, and it was like billeting, the way his wife and kids treated him when he came up. Chloe managed to make it out tonight, left the girls with some babysitter who probably had no clue what they were getting into, and then she promptly wandered away from Fournier and Thomas and went to mingle. Right now she’s mingling with Riley.

Chloe shoots Fourns a look that Fourns translates out loud. “She wants to keep him,” he says, a little longsuffering.

Five minutes later, she wanders over. “We’re keeping the Sen,” she says.

Lapointe’s walking past them when she says it, and he gives her the widest, most genuine smile Thomas thinks he’s ever seen on his face off the ice.

“I suppose we can keep you too,” she says thoughtfully.

“Thank you,” Lapointe says earnestly.

Fournier and Thomas exchange glances. Or, Fourns gives Thomas a meaningful look and Thomas nods as if he understands it. He’s not sure he does.

She nods slowly. “You need to block shots more,” she tells him, and then pats him on the arm and walks towards the bathroom. He looks over at Thomas and Fournier.

“Please don’t,” Fournier says. “You’ll break something.”

Lapointe looks over at Thomas. “That’s what we have pylons for,” Thomas adds.

Anton appears suddenly, like he was called by name. “Are you calling me a pylon?” he asks.

“No,” Thomas says, and then, “wait, that was French, wasn’t it?”

Lapointe and Fourns both confirm this.

“Pylon is basically the same word,” Anton says, taking the seat beside Thomas. “Hey, is your deadbeat husband going to buy the next round?”

“I am,” Lapointe says. “Except for you. You get nothing.”

He takes Fournier and Thomas’ drink orders. Doesn’t bat an eye at Fournier ordering two glasses of wine, one for Chloe and one for himself, but Thomas tries to order two beers and gets the stinkeye.

“You’ll give it to Petrov,” Lapointe says, and Anton looks up at the sound of his name, mouth twisting because he can’t follow it. Thomas has offered to give him French lessons a dozen times, it’s his own fault now.

Thomas was planning on giving it to Anton, so that’s fair.

“A pitcher of Export?” Thomas asks winningly.

“Only because Export is a punishment,” Lapointe says, and wanders away.

Anton looks sadly at his mostly empty glass.

“I got you bro,” Thomas says, nudging his arm. “He’s getting a pitcher for me.”

Anton nudges him back.

“What does it say,” Fourns muses, “That Lapointe and Riley are less attached at the hip than you two?”

“Romance is dead,” Anton says flatly, and Thomas chokes on his sip of beer through giggles.


	70. Gabe/Stephen; coming home

They get into Toronto two days before Gabe’s scheduled to have his day with the Cup. Gabe wanted to go a little earlier; as much as he loves Vancouver and the collective buzz of the city after a Cup win, Toronto’s home. For Stephen, too, but he’s a leery of going home. Anouk’s pissed, sure, and the girls are probably feeling a little betrayed, but that’s never stopped any of them from accepting Stephen back into the Petersen fold when he returns.

The nerves are evident in the clench of his hand on his thigh, the way he’s got his lip between his teeth. “Want to say hi to my parents first?” Gabe asks, casual, and Stephen nods so sharply Gabe’s vaguely concerned his neck’s going to snap. It isn’t much of a stay of execution: no one knew when they were coming in, beyond the fact that there was no way in hell Gabe was going to have his Cup day anywhere but home, but the second they land on Markson doormat, the Petersens are going to know. Gabe used to think his mom and Anouk had a psychic bond, and even now he wouldn’t bet against it.

Gabe’s parents are still at work when he lets himself in, so they drop their shit and head out into the neighbourhood, past their elementary school, blocks away, and then through the park and their first arena. They don’t make snowballs out of the ice left outside by the Zamboni, melting in the July sun, but Stephen does shove a handful of it down the back of Gabe’s shirt, sprinting half a block to avoid retribution. Then onto the stretch of Eglinton, wandering eastward until they hit Yonge, Gabe ignoring the way Stephen eyes the subway station like it can provide escape, and instead dragging him into What-a-Bagel for bagels with cream cheese and lox, a loaf of challah to bring home because it’s offseason and he’s carbo-loading, and challah.

Gabe drags him into Sugar Mountain next, and spends more money than he’s proud of, making bags of assorted candy for Stephen’s sisters, while Stephen looks on sceptically, but also steers Gabe toward the candy they like best.

“Are you still trying to make them like you more than me?” Stephen asks.

“I already succeeded,” Gabe says. “And these are from you, anyway.”

He doesn’t wince at the total, because he’s got the money, and anyway, Gabe as a kid would have killed to have a bag of candy this massive and awesome, but Stephen does, reaching for his wallet before Gabe kicks his shin, then just glowering at Gabe and accepting the bags with ill grace.

“I could pay,” Stephen mutters.

“I am we,” Gabe tells him solemnly. “Idiot.”

“That made no sense,” Stephen tells him, but brushes his hand against Gabe’s, quick.

“I could fill the Cup with candy,” Gabe says in belated realisation.

“You do it from here, it’ll cost you half a grand,” Stephen says.

“Stephen,” Gabe says. “I could fill the Stanley Cup with candy.”

Stephen’s mouth quirks up. “Seven year old you is so jealous,” he says.

“So jealous,” Gabe agrees.

“We should get the candy from Bulk Barn, at least,” Stephen says. “More economical.”

“You need to stop spending time with my mother,” Gabe tells him.

The girl at the counter’s watching them with poorly contained amusement. “Congrats on the Cup, Markson,” she says, “Glad a Toronto boy’s got it. We’ll be taking it back from you, though.”

The Leafs failed to even make the playoffs this year, a pretty steep decline from Cup champions. Still, Gabe’s in a good enough mood to be gracious, just give her a grin and drag Stephen away from the jawbreakers, back into the heat, pavement cooking under their feet.

They end up back at Eglinton Park, heartlessly stealing two swings, handing a smaller bag of candy they got for themselves back and forth. Stephen’s hand is still too stiff to curl around the hot metal of the chain, so he swings idly, sneaker dragging through the sand, while Gabe goes high enough the frame starts making alarming sounds, and no higher.

When it gets close to six, Stephen grabs a vanilla cone from an ice cream truck, and reluctantly follows Gabe back towards home, fighting a losing battle, trying to eat his ice cream before it drips all over his hand.

“He offered you a napkin,” Gabe says mildly.

Two steps behind him, Stephen says, “I’d give you the middle finger but I’m busy.”

“You’ll beat that ice cream,” Gabe tells him. “I have faith in you.”

“Okay, now I’m actually giving you the finger,” Stephen says, but when Gabe turns around, he’s not, just wrinkles his nose at Gabe as Gabe walks backward, a streak of ice cream on his chin that Gabe is totally not going to tell him about.

“I grabbed a napkin for you,” Gabe says, and pulls it out of the pocket of his shorts, brandishing it like a flag.

“Okay, you need to stop spending time with my dad,” Stephen says, then starts laughing when Gabe trips on a crack in the sidewalk, landing on his ass.

“Ow,” Gabe says faintly, and scrambles up. Stephen’s still laughing, and Gabe swipes at his chin with the napkin in retaliation.

They get back to Gabe’s parents place more or less intact and not completely covered in ice cream, which counts as a win. Gabe and Stephen’s bags are no longer in the hall, probably shuttled up to Gabe’s room. They kick off their shoes and follow the sound of the TV into the living room, where his parents are watching the news. They both stand when they come in, though, Gabe’s mom swooping in for hugs first, ruffling Stephen’s hair and calling him a hippy, since it’s reached his chin, and Gabe’s dad giving the typical bone cracking hugs that shouldn’t be so effective, since Gabe and Stephen have at least four inches on him.

Gabe’s mom rubs her thumb over Stephen’s cheek. “Ice cream?” she asks, and Stephen shoots Gabe a betrayed look, which. Hey, at least Gabe proffered the napkin, which was more than Stephen was prepared to provide himself. “We thought you boys might’ve been over there,” she says, “but Anouk says she hasn’t seen you.”

Stephen winces, but Gabe was pretty much expecting that. “We’ll go over soon,” Gabe says, completely ignoring the look he’s sure Stephen is shooting his way.

Gabe’s mom waves her hand. “Johan’s barbequing,” she says. “We were just waiting for you.”

Stephen’s keys are somewhere in his luggage, but Gabe’s mom has a spare, a holdover from babysitting the girls. They let themselves in, Stephen grimly clutching the candy like a peace offering, and head to the backyard. The girls are up in a flash, Anna first, then Elisabeth, who’s hit the age where she’s supposed to be too cool to show excitement, but that lasts about two seconds before she barrels into Gabe, since Stephen’s taken at the moment.

“What’d you bring us?” Elisabeth asks.

“I brought you a Cup,” Gabe says, and ignores groans from all three Petersen siblings.

“I brought candy?” Stephen tries, which is accepted with much more grace, both of them with a hand in the bag before Johan calls, “Not before dinner!” and they sulkily put it down.

Gabe’s mom takes over the grill so Johan can give them both hugs, and then Anouk, who cracks Gabe’s bones about as well as Gabe’s dad does, then pulls him down to kiss both his cheeks. She sizes up Stephen.

“Honey,” she says, and Stephen basically folds into her, profoundly relieved, as though there was ever any doubt. Stephen doesn’t give them enough credit. Doesn’t give himself enough, either. Gabe has to do it for the both of them.

Stephen stays there that night, since they haven’t told their parents yet, don’t want to in front of the girls in case it goes wrong, which is a vanishingly small likelihood, but one Stephen’s firm on. Then again, Gabe’s not quite sure how to explain it to a kid, so maybe it’s best they leave that to Johan and Anouk. Gabe suspects he would have taken his room anyway, exhausted by the nerves running through him all day. Gabe lingers after his parents return home, has a beer with Stephen out on the patio, rubbing his thumb over the fine bones of Stephen’s wrist.

“Tomorrow?” Gabe asks, and Stephen nods sleepily.

“And Sunday we fill the Cup with candy,” Gabe says, and Stephen snorts and bats his head against Gabe’s shoulder.

Somehow, Gabe doesn’t think their parents are going to be surprised.


	71. Adam Rousseau; metallic sheen

Adam has one Olympic medal. It’s gold. One Stanley Cup ring, the same silver colour as the Cup. A bronze medal from Worlds.

Marc Lapointe was there for two of those, Adam on his wing, and they played together like they’d done it their entire lives. Adam likes him for that. He doesn’t like him for other things.

Lapointe did all the media when they were doing prelims, because Adam didn’t want to and it was pretty obvious Chapman didn’t either. He had an accent in English, but he talked a lot, said a lot of words Adam didn’t know. It made Adam feel stupid. Adam thought he was showing off at first, but he did it even when cameras weren’t around. Chapman didn’t talk much, but he looked like he understood what Lapointe was saying.

Adam understood him best when he was swearing at them in practice and during games. He did it in a mixture of English and the only French Adam knew. He never did it off the ice, but Adam liked him best when he was doing it. The three of them were a good line, and after they won gold the media all said it was because of their line that Sweden didn’t have gold instead.

Adam likes Lapointe’s hockey a lot. Some people say it’s showing off, like Adam thought he did in interviews. They don’t know hockey if they’re saying it, because Lapointe doesn’t do anything that doesn’t help his team win. He’s fast, too, like Adam was, like Chapman is. They were the fastest line on the ice. No one could catch up.

The reasons Adam doesn’t like Lapointe aren’t really Lapointe’s fault.

He doesn’t think it started with Larsson, but maybe it did.

Larsson said things, things Adam was shocked he had the guts to say, before he knew it was all a game to him. He thought it figured that it was Lapointe’s friend who did it. After, when he learned why Larsson did it, he thought that figured too.

Larsson was the kind of friend that Adam would have guessed Lapointe would have, if someone asked him. He smiled a lot, his teeth white, even under a clear mouth guard. He talked a little like Lapointe did, really good English even though he was from Sweden. He looked tan even in winter, which made his teeth look even whiter. He had pale blue eyes that looked almost grey.

He was handsome, like the way Adam’s mom used to say it, with a little sigh, when she talked about his dad. Handsome with a sigh, because he was handsome but no good. Handsome enough that it didn’t matter that he was no good. That’s the kind of handsome he was. Adam, who was careful not to look at any guy too long on the ice or off it, couldn’t help but look at him.

Gorgeous is the word his sister would use. She wouldn’t be lying.

Adam looked at him a lot. He wasn’t supposed to.

Lapointe had a boyfriend, and then he had a husband. He had a baby girl. He had a family. He had all the guts Adam thought Larsson did. All the guts Adam didn’t. He would talk about his husband to the media like it was normal, like he was talking about a wife. Adam didn’t miss the way the guys in the room cracked jokes and made disgusted faces when Lapointe came out. They must have done it to his face too, but if it bugged him he didn’t show it.

Adam comes to the Rangers. He follows Dominic Travis, who’s the best man he knows. When Adam’s mom got bad, really bad, Dom called every week to see how she was doing, even though he wasn’t Adam’s coach anymore. That’s the kind of man he is. Dom said Adam had the best eye he’d ever seen in a player, and Adam doesn’t know if he was telling the truth, but it was a nice thing to hear.

He knew Larsson was on the Rangers, he won’t pretend he didn’t. It didn’t matter. Adam would have followed Dom to any team just because he asked. He would have gone anywhere Dom wanted him to, but Larsson was on the Rangers, and Adam wasn’t sure what to do about that.

He didn’t think Larsson would forget him. Larsson had been flirting with him for ten years and Adam had only been retired two. That was before Adam knew why Larsson flirted, but Larsson hadn’t forgotten him anyway. The first time Adam locked eyes with him in the room, he winked, and Adam couldn’t help but go red. He could feel his face burn.

He always went red too easy. His mom teased him about it, said she liked to tease him just because every time she did, he proved her right. His mom kept up teasing him until the day she died. If she hadn’t, he doesn’t know what he would have done. She told him she loved him, sometimes, but Adam always felt it the most when she was teasing.

Adam thought he might have remembered Larsson as more handsome than he was. He thinks he remembers the ice as better, the game as brighter, now that it feels dull. He figured Larsson would be the same, especially since he was getting old. They both were. He was wrong about that. The first time he saw Larsson again his heart pounded in his chest like he’d just finished a shift. More than that, more like if he’d been slammed into boards so hard he couldn’t breathe for a minute. Winded. That’s how he felt.

Larsson’s as bright as the sun, leaves him burning the same way the sun does. He feels hot when he’s around him, in more ways than one, embarrassed and angry and lightheaded. He doesn’t think it’s a very adult way to feel. It’s kind of like the way guys felt about their crushes back in high school, and that’s what this is. It’s a crush, and crushes are supposed to go away.

He’s waiting.


	72. Dan/Marc, Charlotte; Cup day

Charlotte remains just tiny enough to sit in the Cup, if not comfortably.

Dan stayed far, far away on Marc’s first Cup day with the Habs. It wasn’t personal, it wasn’t meant as a jab, despite whatever some publications wrote: Dan played for the Senators, and it would be extremely unprofessional for him to celebrate the Canadiens winning a Cup. Also his entire locker room would never forgive him.

Marc wasn’t bothered by it, went to Laval for his day, leaving from Toronto late the night before, a kiss pressed into Dan’s shoulder blade as goodbye, and celebrated with his family, went to his elementary school and his first arena, all the typical Cup moments they both experienced when the Leafs took it.

When you’ve got a squirming infant in your arms reaching out for her papa, there’s basically no way to avoid becoming part of the story. At this point, Marc’s captain in all but title, a title he specifically turned down, is handed the Cup second, has as many, if not more cameras surrounding him, since he’s been around more than a decade and they know they’re guaranteed a soundbite that doesn’t consist of the typical ‘110%’.

Charlotte starts fussing as soon as they’re in view of Marc, tilting out of Dan’s arms, reaching miserably for Marc. Dan can tell when Marc notices; he’s already been beaming, but it gets brighter, and he motions Dan over, takes Charlotte, who squirms happily into him, drags Dan into frame just long enough to press a kiss to his cheek, the brim of his hat banging Dan’s temple, before Dan scoots out of the range of the cameras.

If there was any hope Charlotte would behave better in front of cameras, which Dan did not have in the first place, it’s not to be. Marc manages a sentence or two, perhaps, before Charlotte starts tugging at his beard. It’s not as pitiful as it was when Marc was younger, but still a bit of an eyesore, and Charlotte hasn’t liked it at all, cried inconsolably once it became thick, like she no longer recognised Marc as her father. She’s used to it now, but she still dislikes it, and will take any chance to make that clear.

Marc says as much to the media, sheepish looking, which is a total lie, because he not only finds Charlotte’s dislike for it amusing, but agrees entirely. He’s well aware that it isn’t a flattering look, and speaks dismissively of the superstitious nature of athletes, but every year he makes the playoffs, he grows it and Dan teases him for the entirety of it. Playoff tax, or something. The closer you are to the Cup, the more teasing you get.

She grows bored with his beard eventually, bored in general, wriggling in his arms enough he has to adjust, and Dan takes a couple steps forward, prepared to take her if she tries to escape. She doesn’t, ends up running out of gas, drowsing on Marc’s shoulder, mouth wide open, and that picture gets plastered everywhere.

This time, when Marc has his day with the Cup, there’s no doubt that Dan will be there. He’s gone back to his neighbourhood every time he’s won the Cup, but this time they stay at home, easy, other than the camera crew following them. Charlotte has accepted the Stanley Cup as her newest toy, and Dan dreads the moment they take it away, suspects a tantrum will follow.

For now, everyone’s charmed by it, Charlotte sitting beside the Cup, dwarfed by it, hugging it to her like a doll. A Lapointe through and through, reaching for the Cup from an early age. She fits in the bowl of it, though she doesn’t like being there, fusses as soon as Dan gently sets her in it, and won’t stop until he scoops her up.

“Should have won last year,” Dan tells Marc, and Marc kicks his ankle then hooks his own ankle around Dan’s.

Dan was expecting today to sting, a little, the way it stung when Marc won with the Habs the first time, Marc triumphing in something that Dan had no part in, but it doesn’t, honestly. Even if it did, wrangling Charlotte is a full-time job in general, and worse today, because she’s hopped up on attention, hamming it up for the cameras. She’s a deceptively fast runner, too, for someone who isn’t even two yet, and Dan has to chase her since Marc’s busy with an interview, which is interrupted by Charlotte shrieking in delight when Dan catches her and scoops her up, puts her on his shoulders so she can survey her kingdom.

They make Marc take out his bling, which is usually tucked away, not framed like Dan’s seen in a lot of people’s houses. The Olympic medals, two Gold, one Silver, the Juniors medals, Silver and Gold, a Bronze from Worlds, his Stanley Cup rings, the Leafs and the first Habs one. They haven’t finished the one for this year yet. There seem to be two too many Stanley Cup rings, considering, and when Dan wanders over, his suspicions are confirmed, his Leafs and Senators rings sitting there innocuously. He rolls his eyes at Marc, and Marc rolls them back, reaching for Charlotte when she starts to get impatient with her high perch, and showing her the accumulation, Charlotte running her fingers over the ribbons.

“Think you’ve got another one in you?” asks the reporter who’s been shadowing them all day, travelling with the Cup and its caretaker everywhere, as far as Alaska and Latvia. Her job is cool as hell, but returning to Montreal must feel like a relief. 

“We shall see,” Marc says, grinning, and Charlotte takes that as her cue to tug hard at the ribbon of Olympic Silver, Dan narrowly catching it before it hits the floor.

It doesn’t end up working out that way. Marc’s passed over for the Olympics, which he accepts with a philosophical shrug, because he’s 37 by then and really not expecting it. The Habs don’t make it further than the second round before he retires, which he’s slightly less philosophical about, but not full of complaints, either.

Charlotte, once she’s Charlie, old enough to understand weight of the Stanley Cup, is downright pissed she wasn’t old enough to remember, but she’s got a photo in her room, tucked away by her bed, of her sitting in the Cup, face red, on the edge of a tantrum.


	73. Jake, David; celebrating birthdays

Jake was born the day after Christmas. His mom spent Christmas night in the hospital, and Allie told when he was little that he ruined Christmas that year, then looked immediately guilty when he started to cry. Jake knows other guys who were born around Christmas complain about not getting as many presents, but Jake’s presents were always the essentials, bought at the beginning of the season, because last year’s equipment never fit. His mom sighed at the fact he kept growing, but Jake knew he needed to if he ever wanted to reach the NHL. By the time he was fourteen he was 6’0’’, and USA Hockey started helping out with the equipment costs.

What Jake remembers the most about his birthday is that everyone was around for it. Allie and Nat didn’t have that, born in April and July. Their birthdays were their day and their day only, and Jake’s wasn’t really, but he had his grandparents, his aunts and uncles, his cousins, all singing him a happy birthday, a candle stuck in pie left over from Christmas dinner the night before. He wouldn’t change it. Now that he’s in the NHL, he’s guaranteed a day off on his birthday too, a chance to go home, takes the first flight he can get from Miami to Detroit, and takes the last one available to go back.

It’s just them now, his grandma gone and his grandpa in a home, a nicer one than he was before, because Jake had hated the way it smelled like disinfectant and piss, so that was the first thing he spent money on when he got his signing bonus, that and the rest of his parents’ mortgage, his sisters’ student loans. Then he bought himself an awesome car, but he thinks he was allowed. 

His cousins have started having kids, because his mom’s the baby of her family and Jake’s the baby of his, so his aunts and uncles are grandparents now, host their own Christmases. Jake loved how noisy it was, as a kid, but he doesn’t mind this either, and it’s not like his sisters and him are quiet. Allie still wakes them both up first thing, though it’s closer to seven now than five, like when they were kids, and they open their stockings together, trade anything they feel like trading, Jake handing over his chocolate bar for Allie’s Chapstick, because he goes through it like crazy.

Creep downstairs, but now they make coffee and breakfast so that it’s ready when their parents get up. They always try not to wake them up, but inevitably Jake pokes Nat where she’s ticklish, or Allie spatters Jake’s cheek with batter, and they always wake them up with a yell.

Jake’s birthday is quiet, after everything else. There are a couple little presents, and maybe they go to the movies or out to dinner, now that it’s the five of them. Last year, Allie and Nat spent the entire time teasing him about David, but this year they’re good, don’t say anything, even when Jake can’t stop checking his phone, knowing he isn’t going to get a text from him, wading through all the texts he does get, thinking he’d trade all of them for a simple ‘Happy birthday’.

*

David was born on Epiphany. He was usually the oldest kid in his class, growing up, the oldest on his roster. He wonders if that’s why he always felt so far apart from anyone, so much more mature, but once he was playing internationally, or in the Q, and he was one of the youngest or middle of the pack, he realised that wasn’t true.

He’d never really had the parties that the other kids had, the kind he was sometimes invited to, where the whole class came over, or half the roster, and they had cakes and games like pin the tail on the donkey, and a pile of presents everyone had to watch the birthday boy or girl open, and loot bags for all the guests to take home. David didn’t have those. He was allowed, sometimes, to take a few friends somewhere, like for dinner, or to the Children’s Museum, once to Parliament, to see behind the scenes, but David had seen it all before and the two boys who were with him, who played on his line, were bored stiff the whole time, even David could tell.

David’s birthday has never been a very big deal, and he didn’t understand why other people’s were. It’s not like they did anything, they were born, that’s all. His mother used to say on his birthday that she should get the presents, because she did all the work, and David’s dad’s mouth would get tight. That’s back when his father was around. One birthday, he took David and a friend to a Senators game on his birthday. The Senators beat the Islanders 4-2, and it was one of the best birthdays David ever had.

This year, on his birthday, they’re playing the Senators, because life works out like that sometimes, coincidences that people mistake for patterns, like the whole world revolves around him. History doesn’t repeat itself; they lose in overtime, 4-3, and David stares Eisler down before he can get any closer with the shaving cream he’s trying and failing to hide.

He goes home after the game. Brouwer had bought him a six pack a couple days ago, said the stuff he drank was shit, and if he insisted on going American, he better do it right. He drinks one, because he’s allowed. It’s hardly his first beer, and not even close to his first legal one, since he’s been legal in Ontario for two years, some of the other provinces they play in for three.

He doesn’t know why he expects it to seem meaningful, to taste different, or something. It does taste different, but that’s because it’s bitter, thick, a little unpleasant, not like the light beer he favours. He finishes it, because it’s his first legal beer in America and he should probably finish what he starts, but leaves the rest of the pack in the back of the fridge. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t throw them out, since he won’t drink them and he doesn’t invite anyone over, only invited Jake, really, and that’s obviously no longer true. He doesn’t like to waste things. That’s probably why he keeps them.


	74. Sven/Gerard/Yvette; taking action

It’s hard to say who notices first. When Yvette mentions it to him, almost casually, it feels only like the confirmation of belief.

Even so, it’s Sven who notices the way Gérard looks at Yvette. It’s Yvette who notices the way Gérard looks at Sven. Perhaps that is the way of things.

The first time Gérard is confronted with the truth, Sven bringing up the looks he noticed, he looks trapped. Sven tells Yvette about it after, as he told Yvette of his plans before, and she sighs but does not seem surprised.

Weeks later, Sven mentions Yvette’s observation, and Gérard’s expression graduates from trapped to frantic. That was not Sven’s intention. He isn’t honestly sure of what his intention was, beyond the surety that this was not the sort of thing that should remain unacknowledged, that this was the sort of thing that would poison the well, as it were.

Early on, Yvette asked him how he felt about it. He honestly hadn’t thought about it, so busy attempting to address the issue.

She insists, and he thinks about it. Gérard has been there since Sven was newly adult in name and painfully childish otherwise, has been a crutch when he needed one, and a ballast every other time. Sven could not imagine his life without him, in the room or on the ice or otherwise. Gérard has a room in their house, a space in their fridge. Their couch has adjusted to him. The right cushion is Sven’s, middle Yvette’s, left Gérard’s.

“I don’t know,” Sven tells her finally. It’s a poor answer, and the only one he has, at the moment.

“Are you even attracted to him?” Yvette asked, the sort of question that would likely be loaded if it had not come from her.

“Can I think about it?” Sven asked, and Yvette was amused by the answer, but allowed it.

He does think about it, though perhaps thought is not the word. More observation of his own impulses. Sven likes women, that’s an established fact. His sexual history has been exclusively comprised of such, and he planned, with all honesty, to be faithful to Yvette until the day he dies, no matter how unlikely human experience says the fulfillment of said promise will be.

“Are you?” Sven asks, the sort of question that would likely be loaded if it had not come from him.

Yvette gives him an unimpressed look. “Yes,” she says, finally.

The Senators win against the Islanders, and Gérard gets Bowman into a headlock after his goal, scrubbing a hand through his hair. He’s always been better at that than Sven has, the intricacies of physical affection among so many stilted in adolescence. His hair’s stringy with sweat, constantly in his eyes, the back of his neck flushed with exertion. He’s shrugged out of everything, jersey, padding, Under Armour, but he hasn’t removed his pads, so he looks disproportionate, like way Sven’s sister drew all her figures as a child, thin chest and legs, hips wider than the figure was tall. He looks utterly ridiculous, a farce.

“Yes,” Sven tells Yvette when he comes home.

* 

After a four game road trip, Yvette greets him at the door, which is unusual. “Gérard’s things are gone,” she says, and Sven glances at their son, comfortable on her hip, observing him with her dark eyes.

She makes an exasperated sound. “I don’t know why you insist on avoiding nicknames,” she says.

Ah.

She hands Gerard off to him, must know he’s hungry for it after absence, the baby powder smell of him, the softness of his fine hair. Sven presses his mouth to his temple, smiles when Gerard slaps his cheek with a pudgy hand. “Hello you marvelous boy,” Sven murmurs.

“Are you not listening to me?” Yvette asks.

“I’ll talk to him,” Sven says.

“You talking to him was the problem in the first place,” Yvette says.

Sven looks up at her. “You’d rather we ignore it?” he asks.

She doesn’t say anything. Her hair’s starting to pull free from her bun, and there’s what looks like peas on the collar of her blouse. She looks exhausted, face pinched with it. Sven tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, rubs the back of her neck.

“Or perhaps you wish that we had never noticed in the first place,” Sven tries.

“No,” she says, soft, an admission. “I don’t wish that.”

Something in Sven’s chest pulls tight. Something settles into place. “Me either,” he says.

“So what now?” Yvette asks, licks her thumb and reaches out to rub it over a smudge of pea on Gerard’s cheek.

“I don’t know,” Sven says.

“You always know,” Yvette murmurs.

Sven shakes his head. There’s no manual for this, nothing but instinct, reactive sensation. Gérard had ducked out early, must have depended on Sven remaining longer, a safe bet. Yvette’s work schedule is similarly well-defined. Let himself into their house quiet, like a thief, though Sven doesn’t know what you would call a man who takes only his own things, the signs of his presence reverting to absence.

“Perhaps I should speak to him,” Yvette says.

“He’d run before you got within five feet,” Sven says. He remembers the look on Gérard’s face, cornered, like an animal unsure whether to lash out or escape. Scared, above all. He hated the look, hated being responsible for it.

“If he avoids me, the entire room will know something is amiss,” Sven says. “I’ll think of something to say.”

“Start with telling him to bring his things back or I’ll kick his ass,” Yvette tells him.

“He’s frightened of you, that just might work,” Sven says.

Her mouth tips up in the slightest of smirks, and Sven can’t help but kiss her tilting mouth.


	75. David/Jake; Regency AU

David knows the necessity of it. As distasteful as the situation is, he understands. He just cannot understand, of all the people in the world, why he should be betrothed to Jacob Lourdes.

The Lourdes are new money. David spoke French to Miss Natalie Lourdes at the last fete in an attempt to be polite. She looked at him as if he had grown another head. He had wondered, at first, if his French was truly that abominable, but despite their name, the Lourdes do not speak a word of French among them. They are uncultured, uncouth, and Jacob Lourdes is the worst of them.

“Why him?” David asks, trying to keep his voice even, but unable to suppress the thread of dismay. Jacob Lourdes is brash, loud, draws every eye wherever he goes, some amused, most disapproving. He seems to forever be surrounded by the men David’s age, whom David has always been uncomfortable with, whom have always been uncomfortable with him. He’s boorish, to tell the truth. “Why not his sister?”

“Allison is married, and Natalie betrothed,” his mother says, looking at him as if it was disappointing her that he was not aware of such things. He was, if rather vaguely. “He spoke to your father. He’s asked for your hand.”

“Why me?” David asks, revising the question. He has hardly spoken a word to Lourdes, and he is certain that the words he has offered have been stiff and possibly impolite. Lourdes makes him uncomfortable, much like the other men David’s age, but it is magnified with him. David disliked him before he spoke a word, and when he spoke it did not revise David’s opinion.

“Your father has agreed,” his mother says, which he already knew. They would not be telling him if it was mere supposition, and his opinion was not of import. David knows the necessity of it – their estates are in dire order after a merchant ship went down off the coast of Newfoundland. His parents have not confided in him, but he is not oblivious, and solicitors are their most frequent visitors.

“When do we marry?” David asks, finally.

“Spring,” his mother says, and when David opens his mouth to argue, “Your father and Lourdes have agreed on a short betrothal. It would be unfortunate were he to change his mind.”

Change his mind in the face of David, she means. He knows he is not a good conversationalist, an easy companion. They are not traits he finds himself naturally adept with, nor comfortable pretending. He tries, but it is a wasted effort, and he knows it embarrasses his mother, frustrates his father, that their only child is a mere footnote in the society they are both so comfortable within.

He is to meet with Lourdes the next day. By the look on his parents’ faces, he can tell they would rather David and Lourdes not see one another until the wedding day, lest David destroy the alliance before it can be notarized. It would hardly do, however, to rebuff his suitor on the first day of their betrothal, so instead they put the house in order, maids scrambling like it is the King who is visiting and not the boor who is incapable of behaving at any social gathering. Like as not, he’ll undo all the work they have done.

David does not necessarily mean to arrive late, however he was quite fascinated by a sport annal, and lost track of time. He’s roused by the maid, who has a look of disapproval that she must have learned from his mother. He almost comments that her expression is quite above her station, but he suspects his mother would quite approve of it, considering he is, it appears, unconscionably late. Even so, he does not hurry down to the parlour, walks slowly enough that the maid, walking behind him, almost clips his heels.

“David,” Lourdes says, standing. David bites back his immediate reaction: that Lourdes has no right to call him by his Christian name. They are betrothed: even if they hardly know one another, and even if he has scarcely heard his parents refer to one another by their Christian names in all his life, perhaps it is different for the Lourdes, and David suspects his mother would not be impressed if the engagement was broken because David reacted to over-familiarity.

“Mr. Lourdes,” he says, stiffly.

Lourdes’ mouth twists into an expression similar to, and yet not a smile. “Mr. Chapman,” he says, and David feels his cheeks heat, feels humiliated by the way Lourdes says his name, like it is amusing to him. Not for the first time, he wonders what would happen if he refused to follow through with this farce of a betrothal, but he knows the answer, so he knows it is not possible. Perhaps if he were to drive Lourdes away before the wedding, rather than dispute his father’s judgement, it would be different, but he cannot be sure of it, and so he must attempt to avoid that as well. “Please sit.” As if it was his house and not David’s.

Lourdes stands several inches above him: David is of more than average height, but beside Lourdes he feels small. He loathes the feeling, so it is well enough that they sit.

“I apologise for my tardiness,” David says, because he was raised to have manners, even in the face of one such as Lourdes. “I was reading and lost track of the time.”

“It is no matter,” Lourdes says. “Was it interesting?”

“An annal on sport,” David says, embarrassed to admit it.

“I love all kinds,” Lourdes says. He looks the type who would. It is impossible not to notice the breadth of his shoulders in his suits: he looks more a labourer than a gentleman. 

“There is a type played on skates,” David says. “A winter pastime in which –”

Lourdes is smiling.

“You know it,” David says.

“I love it especially,” Lourdes says. “Do you play?”

David cannot think of a way to say that his parents disapprove of physical exertion without appearing a coddled child. “I have not had the pleasure,” he says, instead.

“Oh, we must play,” Lourdes says, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Before the ice is gone.”

David looks at him, his uncomplicated enthusiasm. “If you like,” he says, finally, because his need to be contrary is outweighed by his fascination of the sport in question. Surely his parents could not bar him if it was Lourdes inviting him to play.

“I do,” Lourdes says. “Very much.”


	76. Mike/Liam; in between

They don’t see each other. Detroit isn’t exactly close to the Twin Cities, and they don’t share a conference, let alone a division, so the game Liam came for was the only time he’d be in St. Paul in a professional capacity. Mike wonders who the fuck would willingly subject themselves to Liam’s text speak, but that’s rhetorical, because it’s him. It takes ages to decipher what the fuck he’s trying to say, sometimes, and he makes sure to use perfect capitalization, punctuation, grammar, trying to teach by example, which Liam, of course, completely ignores.

Somewhat better are the phone calls, Liam forever cheerful, even when Mike’s the opposite of a good conversationalist, even when Mike probably makes it hard. Mike’s never talked to Liam much on the phone. Either they were in Edmonton or they weren’t, and when they weren’t it was generally the shitty texts or nothing at all. But Liam calls him sometimes. Mike doesn’t like phones, never has, endured for his mom and his agent, mostly, when they did come, doctors and management, later, and otherwise would only respond to texts. But Liam calls him sometimes, and Mike picks up, because, as he is reminded all the time, when it comes to Liam, he’s shit at saying no.

They’re not bad, though, not like he figured they’d be. No awkward pauses or anything, just Liam contentedly chatting away and Mike grunting when appropriate, pretty much exactly what it was like in person. Liam calls after the season’s over, late, so later in Halifax, and Mike picks up because he’s shit at saying no, and because there’s always the chance it’s important, at this time of night.

“I have my finger on a button,” Liam tells him.

“Are you about to bomb the Soviets?” Mike asks.

Liam doesn’t laugh. Kid was born almost a decade after the Cold War ended. That’s a depressing fucking thought. Probably wouldn’t have laughed even if he was Mike’s age. Fucking Canadians.

“Mike, listen,” Liam whines. He’s been drinking, then. He mostly whines when he’s been drinking. Not always, but mostly. Though honestly, fuck if Mike knows. He’s still working with the knowledge of Liam as a teenager, who even knows what Liam’s like now. He’s lived years Mike wasn’t around for.

Mike isn’t the kind of person to allow himself regret.

“You have your finger on a button,” Mike says. “Any other scintillating news in your life? Did you pull a switch today?”

“It’s a flight,” Liam says, “Halifax to Minneapolis. Well, like not directly, it’s got stop-overs, I think in Toronto and then –”

“Point, Liam,” Mike says.

“Do I hit it?” Liam asks.

“You do whatever you want,” Mike says. It’s both permission and a statement of fact.

“Do you want me to?” Liam asks.

There are some things you don’t ask a person to admit. This is not one of them, but Mike doesn’t like being asked, regardless.

“When are you coming?” Mike asks.

Liam still speaks Mike well enough, apparently. “I clicked it!” he says, sounding pleased with himself.

“Congratulations,” Mike says dryly. “You clicked a button.”

“Fuck off,” Liam says cheerfully, “I’m sending you my itinerary.”

“Waiting on the edge of my seat, kid,” Mike says. It does not come out nearly as sarcastically as he would like it to.


	77. Vladimir/Tonya

Thing is, Tonya’s not the kind of girl who gets herself knocked up at twenty. She’s not saying it like she’s better than someone who does or anything, just that anyone who knows her would laugh at the idea of it. She’s in Hartford because she got a partial scholarship to UConn, and her uncle and his family lives there, so that’s living expenses, too, and a guarantee to her parents that she’ll be safe and taken care of. It feels like a thousand miles from Brooklyn, but she can go home sometimes. It works for her.

She’s waitressing, ‘not enough to distract from her studies’, as promised, but enough to pay for dinners out, coffee, movies, the little things you don’t think of when you’re a teenager and you’ve got an allowance, as small as hers was. Pays better than babysitting her cousins, but anything does, because she does that gratis. Can’t begrudge it, considering her uncle’s letting her stay there for free, but those kids are monsters.

She doesn’t even really notice him, the first night they come in, though there’s a hum to the place, people’s eyes shifting over to the table of a half dozen guys around her age, maybe a few years older. Doesn’t notice him until he orders, haltingly, so much so some of the guys at the table look uncomfortable, and one takes over for him.

At the end of the night, she gives him his check and tells him to have a good night in Russian, and the way his eyes light up, she feels like she’s done her good deed for the day, maybe even the whole week. He tips her so well it’s almost embarrassing – the whole table tips well, but his is half his bill. She has no clue how a guy who barely speaks a word of English can afford to tip like that.

They come back a few more times, and by then she’s aware that they’re Whalers, because her manager freaks out like they’re royalty when they come in. Her parents are hockey fans, but they like the Islanders, when they bother with the NHL, mostly get into it when the Olympics roll around, went downright nuts when the USSR came to the US, so she’s not exactly inclined to treat them like the gods the rest of the place is acting like they are.

He asks her name, at some point. She looks down at her nametag, pointedly enough, she hopes. “Tonya,” she says.

“Tatiana?” he asks. Which might actually be her name, at least according to her birth certificate, but it’s kind of rude to assume.

“Tonya,” she repeats.

“Vladimir,” he tells her, offers a hand. She figures it’d be rude not to take it.

First mistake. 

Thing is, even at the worst points in the years that follow, she never regrets it.


	78. Mike/Liam; university AU (cont.)

It’s been going on for months when Mike loses his patience.

“I’m thirty-six years old,” Mike says, when Liam asks him to make him something ‘pretty!’.

“I’m nineteen,” Liam says.

“I’m aware,” Mike says. “You’ve told me a dozen fucking times.”

“You seem to forget a lot,” Liam says cheerfully. “Now that we’re done with our ages, should we talk about favorite colors? Mine’s blue. Ooh, can you make me a blue drink?”

Mike closes his eyes, presses a finger to his temple. This fucking kid. “My point was,” he says, slowly, and patiently, for him at least. “That I am practically twice your fucking age.”

“That’d be thirty-eight,” Liam says.

“Oh good, you can multiply by two, congratulations,” Mike says flatly.

Liam flips him the bird cheerfully. Mike didn’t even know you could do it cheerfully, but that’s what Liam is doing. Liam does everything cheerfully. What kind of nineteen year old jock reacts well to having a bartender refuse to serve him, let alone turns it into a thing and then follows said bartender around like a puppy? It boggles the mind. His mom uses that phrase a lot, and Mike thinks he fully understands it for the first time. Liam gives him a headache. That should go up there with ‘I’m twice your age’ and ‘you could clearly do better’.

“Look,” Mike says. “It’s never going to happen, and if your friends are telling you you’re being more cute than pathetic about it, they’re lying.”

“Wow,” Liam says, and Mike internally winces. It is cute, not that he’d ever admit that out loud, and if anyone’s pathetic in this, it’s Mike, who’s taking the innocent flirtations of a teenager and turning them into something they’re not. “I’m just going to – go.”

“You’re an asshole, Mike,” Claire hisses at him from across the bar. Mike doesn’t need to be told. 

Mike doesn’t know what he expected, after, whether he thought Liam would stop showing up, even though the bar’s conveniently close to campus and dirt cheap, or maybe that he’d just avoid Mike while he was there. He shows up three days later, though, and avoiding Mike isn’t an option, because nobody else is needed for a Tuesday afternoon.

“Can I have a pitcher of Molson?” Liam asks. It’s the only time he’s ever actually asked Mike for an alcoholic drink since Mike carded him the first time he asked. He practically made a game of getting it from other bartenders, or getting one of his friends to order, all so he could ask Mike for something sweet and virgin.

If he’d been smiling, even a little, Mike would refuse him, try to reel that smile out a little more, because he’s got shit self-control. He isn’t smiling, though. Is looking at the scarred wood of the bar, avoiding Mike’s eyes.

“How many glasses?” Mike asks.

“Two,” Liam says, and Mike goes to pour him the pitcher. By the time he’s poured it and put it on Liam’s tab, the guy who’s presumably the second glass has shown up. Mike’s seen him around with Liam’s group of friends before – he’s got to be in his mid-twenties at least, so maybe Liam does like them older, since he grins as the guy approaches. “Help me out?” he asks.

“Sure, Fitzy,” the guy says, and grabs the pitcher while Liam carries the glasses to a small table by the end of the bar. Doesn’t even glance backward, which Mike hadn’t realized was such a habit until he didn’t do it.

There’s nothing platonic about the way they’re sitting, close even for the shitty, tiny tables, probably knocking knees. Go through three pitchers like that, and when Val comes in to help with the night’s rush, Mike’s teeth are set in permanent grit. She flicks her eyes to follow Mike’s.

“Kid finally got himself a minder, huh?” she asks.

“You can fuck right off,” Mike spits out.

She’s used to him, so instead of the affronted face she pulled when she started working there, she just rolls her eyes. “Just ‘cause you aren’t tapping it doesn’t mean no one else can,” she says.

Liam looks up, meets his eye like he knows he’s being talked about. He’s a little flushed from the beer, or maybe Mike’s just imagining that, but he isn’t imagining the way he flushes darker, embarrassed, before he looks away.

“Fuck right the hell off,” Mike says, adds a little more venom to it, and Val laughs at him meanly.


	79. Jake/David, Gabe/Stephen; double date

“No,” Stephen says flatly.

“Even Chapman’s coming,” Gabe wheedles.

“Oh, sorry, I meant fuck no,” Stephen says.

“But it’s going to be hilarious,” Gabe says, “and if the Tigers lose you can mock Jake all you like.”

Stephen’s mouth is flat. “And if the Jays lose, he’ll mock me.”

That is not even remotely true. Jake’s a good sport about these kinds of things, unlike Stephen, who will absolutely mock Jake if the Tigers lose.

“Maybe I’ll bring Anna instead,” Gabe says.

It’s a gamble. Anna would jump at the invitation, because she loves the Jays, along with every other Toronto franchise, and she also loves Jake. Which Stephen knows. Gabe can practically hear the gears whirring in Stephen’s head as he weighs what would be worse, going to a game with Jake Lourdes or listening to his little sister talk about Jake Lourdes for days. Gabe’s fairly confident he knows how this’ll pan out.

“Fine,” Stephen says.

Success!

*

“Were you even born when the Tigers last won?” Stephen asks Jake, in response to some innocuous comment about Tigers history.

Gabe rolls his eyes, tries to share his eyeroll with Chapman, but Chapman is studiously watching the game, even if nothing’s happening right now. Gabe thinks he’s pretending he doesn’t know any of them. He even took the far seat so he wouldn’t have to sit beside Jake, so now Gabe’s sandwiched between Stephen and Jake, which is so fun, seriously.

He has terrible ideas. This was Jake’s idea, actually, but Gabe helped it come to fruition, so he is also to blame.

“Because the Jays have actually won in our lifetime,” Stephen continues.

“We were two,” Gabe says, “it’s not like we have a clear memory of it.” And then, to take the heat off Jake, “Steve.”

Stephen’s glare transfers to him.

Success, Gabe guesses.

*

The Tigers win. Jake doesn’t rub it in at all, just accepts the win with a shrug, which somehow makes both Stephen and Chapman look pissed. Gabe does not understand anything.

“That was fun,” Gabe says, giving Jake a one-armed hug. Stephen’s fuming a few feet away, and Chapman wandered off, presumably still pretending not to know any of them, and immediately got caught by a kid, whose Jays cap he’s signing. They stick around any longer, Jake’s going to get spotted, or Gabe, since Toronto tends to know their hometown boys, especially when they net the Cup, and then people will realise Chapman and Lourdes went to a baseball game together and Chapman will probably ice Jake out again. Also Gabe didn’t bring a sharpie, so it’s best if they book it. “Let’s never do it again.”

Jake laughs, squeezes Gabe back. “You and me, though?”

“For sure,” Gabe says.

“Nice to see you Stephen,” Jake says.

“Hm,” Stephen says noncommittally. He’s just far enough out of range that Gabe can’t step on his foot. He probably planned it that way.

“Should I go rescue your little lady for you?” Gabe asks. He doesn’t think Chapman would appreciate Jake doing it, and while he really doesn’t care, too much, about Chapman’s feelings, he respects the kid’s right to privacy, and also would prefer not to receive sad face texts from Jake. They’re depressing.

Jake flips him the bird, tugs the brim of his hat down further, like that’s going to help.

Chapman has three more kids around him and looks a little like a deer in headlights. “They’ll know who you are,” Stephen says, “I’ll do it.”

He wanders off to save Chapman. “Never again,” Gabe repeats. “Holy shit, man. You have the worst ideas.”

“You agreed,” Jake says.

“I have learned my lesson,” Gabe says. He knocks the brim of Jake’s hat. “Text me later. Let me know if Chapman’s even talking to you.”

“Fuck off,” Jake says, cheerfully enough.

Stephen’s saved Chapman, so. That’s a success, Gabe guesses. He’ll take what he can get at this point.


	80. Vinny&Tony Hamilton

Anton gets called up when Gervais takes a slap shot. Management’s not saying anything beyond the fact it’s upper-body, even more close mouthed about what the recovery time looks like, so Thomas is pretty sure he’s not going to see Anton before the end of the season.

“Cheer up, Vinny,” Bruno says. “I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”

Thomas narrows his eyes at him.

“Or he’ll never be back because that’s bad,” Bruno says hastily. “But you’ll join him soon?”

That’s not really likely. Camden is playing well, and Fournier’s playing just as well, if not better. Only way Thomas is going to be called up is if there’s an injury and they’re set on keeping Stanton in Hamilton for the playoff push. Thomas isn’t against hoping, but he also doesn’t want to wish injury on anyone, and he’s having a good season, Stanton and Thomas almost tandem, rather than the clear first and second they were when the season started. The Bulldogs might actually make the playoffs this year. That’s more than enough to be happy about.

Still, he thinks he’s allowed a moment to be a little sulky when they’re hastily changing room assignments around and he lands up with Neil Seymour, who is nice, but also kind of — exhausting. Anton was a low maintenance roommate. Neil brought his PS3 with them to Utica, and refuses to let Thomas bow out until he’s thrashed Thomas three straight games of COD.

“They stuck you with Seymour?” Anton laughs over Skype.

“Tony come home,” Thomas whines.

Anton smirks. “Want me to break Fournier’s leg or something?”

“No,” Thomas says. “No breaking people’s legs. Why does everyone keep talking about injuring other people?”

“Just say the word and you’ll have a hit squad of Bulldogs breaking bones for you,” Anton tells him.

Thomas rolls his eyes at Anton.

“Comets tomorrow,” Anton says. “You in?”

Thomas nods. “Whalers tomorrow,” he says. “Your parents going?”

“Yeah,” Anton says, face squinching up kind of weird. Thomas has met the Petrovs a few times when they played the Wolf Pack. He’s faintly in awe of Vladimir Petrov, but Anton gets weird about that too, so he tries not to be too obvious about it. He’s not sure he’s any good at it.

It’s not Anton’s first NHL game, he’s gone up a couple times for a few games at a stretch when their blue line’s been unstable, but Thomas knows that once he steps out on that ice Montreal isn’t going to give him up for anything. That’s not him being a supportive friend, that’s him having eyes in his head. Anton’s way better than the rest of the Bulldogs, and probably one of the main reasons Thomas has been having such a good season. He’s a little afraid he’ll dip again without Anton throwing himself in front of everything that comes Thomas’ way, but that’s a selfish thought, one he drops fast.

“Don’t forget the little people now that you’re a hotshot NHL player,” Thomas says.

“Who are you, again?” Anton asks, straight-faced until Thomas starts giggling, then grinning bright at him.


	81. Mike/Liam; rookie detectives

Mike looks out the window and sees a pair of big brown eyes looking out from the bushes. It is, unfortunately, not a wild animal. Mike really fucking wishes it was a wild animal.

“Liam,” he shouts. “Should I start leaving food out for them?”

“If you want to encourage them,” Liam says, coming into the kitchen. He waves at the bush, and the eyes disappear.

“What the fuck team turns stalking their forward into a rite of passage?” Mike asks.

“You’re just mad because last year’s rookies thought you were my dad,” Liam says cheerfully.

Mike is not going to dignify that with a response.

Liam leans in.

“Don’t,” Mike says, “They’re probably still watching.”

Liam rolls his eyes. “Okay, Dad,” he says.

Mike throws a slice of red pepper at him.

*

But seriously, Mike doesn’t even remotely understand the North Stars. The first instance, maybe, because Liam is a wide open book, but has been, according to him, basically close-mouthed about their relationship, because that’s the way Mike wants it. He can see how curiosity plus being a moronic eighteen year old could lead to idiotic decisions. Fuck, Liam has them all beat: his curious and moronic eighteen year old self landed himself in Mike’s bed.

But that first instance was years ago, and now it’s become an annual thing, all the rookies and call-ups banding together to be as nosy as possible. The team calls them the rookie detectives. Mike’s never seen shittier detective work in his entire life.

He’s not inclined to make it easier for them, but it’s pretty pathetic when you’re so oblivious that Liam Fitzgerald is capable of subterfuge. To be fair, if he was presented with the idea that Liam was shacked up with a grim, middle-aged bastard who looked all of his years, plus a few more in exhaustion, he probably wouldn’t believe it either. They think they’re looking for someone Liam’s age, probably just as cheerful, shy enough to avoid team events but not too shy that he won’t cook up something for the potluck, appropriately mid-western, but actually good, unlike the untold mass of pasta salad Liam informs him is the mainstay. They’re picturing someone sweet, unthreatening.

There are eyes in the bushes again. This year’s crop is particularly tenacious.

Mike turns the sprinklers on and allows himself a grudging laugh as they flee.


	82. Gabe/Stephen; rivals

Gabe has known Stephen since he was in diapers – it isn’t hard to know what he’s thinking before he plays the puck. It’s late in the third, Vancouver’s up by three, one of which Gabe assisted on, and Gabe’s going to have to pay for drinks – Stephen supports this with a cranky look – but one person pulled ahead in the Calder race and the standings, and it wasn’t blondie mcsulkerson.

Gabe bets their parents are watching with their fingers screening their eyes. He bets Stephen’s parents cheered as loud as Gabe’s when Gabe assisted, and that Gabe’s parents are still a little disappointed ties don’t exist, that one kid has to beat the other, that they can’t all hold hands and be friends. They’re bad at rivalries. That’s the way it’s been since they split up, started playing each other rather than as a unit, because there wasn’t a place for two first line centres, and neither of them were particularly interested in budging to the wing or moving down a line.

Gabe kind of wonders what it’d be like if they weren’t little assholes at eight, but as it is, every achievement he’s had in life, he’s measured against Stephen. Stephen won the Calder Cup, so Gabe damn well deserves the Calder Trophy. Stephen’s still smarting over Gabe getting drafted two spots before him, probably thinks he deserves the Calder just to show being drafted twenty-eighth is fully as legitimate as twenty-sixth. Like it matters at all.

There’s media after their win. There’s been some directed toward him since he entered the Calder race, and they like him because they get the former teammate angle about Jake and the childhood best friend story about Stephen, since he literally lived down the street from Gabe, and there are pictures of them sharing a bath, maybe three years old at the time, tops. Gabe blames Anouk for them.

They ask him how it feels to beat Stephen, and he thinks his grin says it all.

_You’re buying_ , he gets, once he’s back in his stall, and his grin had mostly faded, but it returns full force.

“Petersen? Your crush on him, so cute,” Kurmazov coos, and Gabe gives him the finger, ducks his head in the hopes no one sees him blushing, though he’s sure they do.

He’s probably a cliche. Of course Gabe develops a crush on his rival. Did it right in the middle of his teens, too, so wins were a weird mix of triumph and mild arousal. They started the trend of winner buying the loser something before they could drink — it was pizza, at the start, and their parents’ money, but it amused their parents and meant a family night out, so they allowed it.

Win or lose, Gabe looks forward to playing Stephen, just because of that, and he thinks that’s probably a pretty shit way to look at a rivalry, with a shrug at a loss, because that means Stephen’s buying him a drink, but hey, they’re only playing each other twice a year, and Gabe’s competitive streak isn’t damaged against anyone else, even Jake.

_I’ll buy you the nice stuff, baby_ , Gabe sends.

_You fucking suck_ , Stephen sends back, and at this rate, Gabe isn’t going to quit grinning all night.


	83. Thomas, Anton, Fourns; Possessiveness

Michel has always had the feeling Petrov doesn’t like him.

It’s a fairly definitive feeling.

It’s also a feeling you’d really prefer your first line of defence did not experience.

Vinny laughed the first time Michel voiced it. “Tony doesn’t like anyone,” he said. “Don’t take it personally.”

Petrov seemed to like Vinny well enough, but Michel hasn’t met a single person who doesn’t like Vinny well enough. Chloe, notoriously difficult to impress, so much so Michel is still continually amazed she married him after his terrible first impression, practically fell in love with the boy in the first meeting, and Vinny moving in to adjust was not only allowed by her, but suggested. The girls adore him. Michel loves him like a younger brother, and even the constant competition in their roles didn’t dull that. If there is anyone who would penetrate Petrov’s insistence on not liking anyone, it’d be Vinny.

Yet Michel feels like Petrov’s dislike of him is a little more targeted. Perhaps jealous in nature, though he is sure Vinny would laugh the thought off. Sometimes Vinny will come to dinner and Petrov will be glowering at him the day after, like Michel had stolen his very favourite toy. Michel is familiar with that look: Vanessa has sticky fingers and Olivia only so much patience.

Michel is far too old for schoolboy outbursts, though Vinny is unfortunately successful at drawing him in to schoolboy antics. He’d have been crushed, as a teenager, to find out an influence’s son would seemingly despise him, but at this point in his life it’s merely amusing.

“Tommy,” Michel says. Vinny, without looking, throws his jock at Michel’s face, and Michel thanks everything above his reflexes are honed enough to catch it before it hits him in the face.

Petrov’s glaring again. Michel is used to it.

“Vinny,” Michel revises, and Vinny is sudden cheer again, like he’d never be the sort to throw his jock strap at someone’s face. That face must get him out of so much trouble. “The girls have invited you to a tea party.”

Vinny looks thoughtful. “Real tea or imaginary tea?” he asks.

“Does that change your answer?” Michel asks.

“Not really,” Vinny says. “Should I wear a top hat or something?”

“Do you have a top hat?” Michel asks.

“I could get one,” Vinny says. “Don’t you need one?”

Petrov has appeared silently. “That’s just in Alice in Wonderland,” he says dismissively. “Tea parties are usually chick things.”

Vinny elbows him. “Quiet or I’ll make you come,” he says, and then switching to French, “tell them I would be honoured to come to their tea party.”

Petrov, cut out of the conversation, looks like he’s swallowed something awful. He eyes Michel. Michel smiles widely back.

“Bring Petrov,” he says to Vinny. Petrov straightens up, hearing his name. “The girls would like that.”

“I will,” Vinny says cheerfully, and at Petrov’s narrowed eyes, Michel only grins wider.


	84. David/Jake; a good day

When Jake suggested the park, David didn’t know what he thought. A couple rounds in the basketball court, or on the baseball diamond, or maybe an ice cream. It’s a hot day, but the good kind, the kind that’s pleasant rather than the kind that makes him sweat through his shirt in five minutes, makes the air thick and smoggy, like most Toronto summer days. That’s probably why he says yes, that and the fact that the only place he’s been but the arena or Jake’s apartment in the last five days was the pool, and that was conditioning.

Jake insists on the subway, and it’s quiet midday on a Sunday, so David ducks his head down, Jays cap low, and hopes that no one recognises him. No one does, and no one recognises Jake, who has a Lions hat tugged down as well, sitting across the aisle, and the same goes for the streetcar, until they’re outside High Park.

“Why’d we come this far?” David asks, a question that’s been tugging at him since they got onto the subway. There’s no shortage of parks in this city.

“It’s got a zoo,” Jake says, waggling his eyebrows, like David has any interest in wild animals, and David rolls his eyes. “Tennis courts too.”

David eyes the bag Jake’s been carrying the whole way. “Is that what’s in there?”

“Maybe,” Jake says, and when he makes his way further into the park, David follows.

He seems to settle on a patch of grass, half in the shade, with only a few people in view. It obviously isn’t a tennis court, but David’s not going to bother pointing that out, because Jake will just laugh. “What’re we doing?” he asks, instead.

Jake opens his bag, pulling out a blanket, then kneeling down and spreading it out. David watches.

“Sit,” Jake directs, and David does, while Jake goes back into the bag and pulls out plates, sandwiches, and bottles of water. “It’s kind of shitty, but I still owed you a picnic,” Jake says. “We can play tennis after, if you want. I bought rackets. You’ll definitely kick my ass, I suck at tennis.”

It takes David a moment to realise what he means, but it clicks then. Jake’s initial date. It rained that day, and they never did it. David didn’t even remember it until now.

He looks at the sandwich, wrapped in plastic. No different than the kind of thing they get on flights, or for catered lunches, looks like turkey and cheese and plenty of lettuce. He unwraps it slowly.

“Thank you for the sandwich,” he says, finally.

“You are so welcome,” Jake says, and David doesn’t even have to look at him to know he’s grinning.


	85. Thomas Vincent: sunshine child

Sometimes Sandro worries that if no one on the roster took care of people for Vinny, he’d end up a sad injured wreck, like one of those ridiculous whole body cast kinds, because he has zero self-preservation skills. Though he also worries that it’s because the roster always sticks up for him that shit like this always happens, because other teams have to know by now that the easiest way to get the Habs riled up and distracted by anger is to get dirty when Vinny’s the one in the crease. 

Lourdes crashes the net at the end of the first, the kind of dirty, dangerous play that gets the whole bench leaping up, and it’s amazing that Vinny came out of it without an injury.

“I’m getting him back for you,” Sandro promises Vinny in the locker room.

“No, it’s okay,” Vinny says. “I’m sure he didn’t mean to do it.”

Sandro stares at him.

“He crashed the net,” he says finally.

“Yeah, but — ” Vinny starts.

“Bud,” Sandro says. “He’s like one of the dirtiest guys there is. He totally meant to do that.”

“He’s a nice guy,” Vinny says, frowning.

“Uh huh,” Sandro says sceptically.

“He’s nice to me,” Vinny adds.

Everyone’s nice to Vinny. That doesn’t really say much, except that you’re not straight up evil. Who knows, maybe even evil people would be nice to Vinny. Sandro’s kind of convinced Gagnon’s evil, and even he’s nice to Vinny. Nice for Gagnon, at least, so nicer to Vinny than he is to anyone else on the team, except maybe Bovard.

Sandro pats his shoulder. “I’m going to avenge you,” he promises.

“Don’t,” Vinny says fretfully. “He’s got like twenty pounds on you. He’ll break your face.”

“I thought you said he was nice,” Sandro says. “I guess we’ll find out.”

After the game Vinny comes over with an ice pack. “For your eye,” he says. “Are your teeth wiggly?”

Petrov snorts. Hey, Vinny’s English is probably better than Sandro’s, he’s allowed a wiggly.

“No wiggles here,” Sandro says. He grins to display them for Vinny, but that just makes his eye throb.

“Good avenging?” Sandro asks hopefully. “Someone’s got to keep Petrov from doing it, he’d just hurt himself.” Not that Sandro got out scot-free, but he’ll just have a black eye, and a couple blows connected with Lourdes. Petrov probably would have broken his hand or slipped on the ice and given himself a concussion or something. Sandro’s never met someone equally intimidating and terrible at fighting.

He doesn’t even have to look to know Petrov’s glaring at him. Whatever, he’s used to it.

“Good avenging,” Vinny says, and pats his shoulder. “Put that on your face,” he adds, bossy, and Sandro obediently does. “Thanks Carmen,” Vinny says, and when Sandro shoots him a thumbs up, Vinny gives him one right back.

Vinny wanders off, and Petrov makes a disgruntled noise. “Dumb ass,” he says.

“Don’t front, if I didn’t you were going to,” Sandro says. “And then Vinny would be mad at you and your whole life would be sad and pathetic and you’d die alone.”

Petrov’s quiet. “Fuck off, Carmen,” he says, finally, and Sandro cheerfully exchanges thumbs up for a middle finger.


	86. Thomas, Anton; tiny fans

Thomas and Anton have just sat down for lunch when he hears a small voice go “Look!”, and can’t suppress a smile. Anton may not speak any French whatsoever, but he’s pretty pro at getting stopped in the street, so his mouth tips up as well. They have time to order while the little boy holds a small argument with his mother, who tells him not to bother them while they’re busy, and then he turns around in his seat. “He can come,” Thomas tells her. “We don’t mind.”

The boy comes bounding over before his mother can even get out of her seat.

“Hi,” he tells Thomas brightly. “You’re Thomas Vincent.”

“I am,” Thomas says. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Xavier Vincent,” the boy tells him. “Vincent, just like you! Do you think we might be related?”

“Maybe,” Thomas says. He feels a nudge against his fingers, and looks over to see Anton’s handed over a sharpie.

“I’m a goalie too, just like you!” Xavier says. “You’re my very favourite goalie.”

“Is that so?” Thomas asks, and can’t help grinning at Xavier, who does sort of look like him as a boy, down to practically wriggling with excitement. “Would you like an autograph?”

“Yes!” Xavier says, and then after a look from his mother, “Yes please!”

His mother’s been rooting in her purse. “I’m not sure we have anything to sign,” she says.

“You can sign my glove hand,” Xavier says. “I’ll never wash it again, and I’ll be as good as you.”

“Maybe something a little more permanent,” his mother says.

“If I never wash it, it will be permanent,” Xavier argues.

Thomas thinks for a moment, then takes his hat off. “It might be a little sweaty, I hope that’s okay?”

“We really can’t — ” the mother says, overlapping with Xavier asking, “You’re giving that to me?” in a faintly awed voice.

Thomas writes “To Xavier, the next Vincent in the NHL,” under the brim in tiny, cramped letters, signs his name under it, and hands his hat over.

“Wow,” Xavier says, then, after a nudge from his mother, “Thank you!”

“Do you want Anton to sign it too?” Thomas asks.

Xavier practically snatches the hat away from Thomas. “No,” he says.

Thomas looks over at Anton, who obviously hasn’t been following the conversation, but is smiling slightly anyway, probably because the boy’s enthusiasm requires no translation.

“That’s Anton Petrov,” Thomas tells Xavier. “He’s my defenceman, and every goalie needs their defencemen.”

“I know,” Xavier says, hugging the hat to his chest. “I just want your name though.”

“Maybe he can autograph something else?” Thomas asks.

“Okay,” Xavier says, audibly disinterested, and Thomas holds back a laugh.

“You keep hockey cards in your wallet still?” he asks Anton in English.

“When you say that it makes me sound arrogant,” Anton mutters, but he’s already got his wallet out. He isn’t arrogant, he just gets stopped for autographs more than Thomas, and he’s always prepared with cards and a sharpie so he doesn’t end up unable to sign or, like Thomas, taking the hat off his head. It’s smart. And nice of him, but he’d argue that one. 

Thomas hands over the sharpie and Anton signs. “Do you want a picture?” Thomas asks.

“Can I just get one with you?” Xavier asks.

“Just the Vincent boys, sure,” Thomas says.

“He wants a picture with just me, is that okay?” Thomas asks Anton. He’s used to that being the other way around, and can’t suppress a thread of hurt when it happens, but Anton just grins at him.

“Yeah Vinny,” he says, “go greet your adoring audience.”

Thomas gives Anton the finger where Xavier can’t see, and then gets down on one knee so Xavier’s mother can take a picture.


	87. David, Adam, Marc; gold

David doesn’t know if it’s sunk in yet. He’s won gold before, but maybe the rush in Juniors is different, because he still feels faintly stunned. The room’s so loud it hurts his ears, but he barely notices it, and doesn’t mind when a teammate who was, and still is, a virtual stranger to him comes over and ruffles his hair.

“Fucking Chapman!” he says before wandering away. Last year he lay a hit on David that sidelined him for two weeks.

It’s just going to be louder in the Village, judging from the response to the women winning Gold, Canadian athletes as big hockey fans as average Canadians. He’s sure half the team’s going to get laid just on the strength of being on the team. He’s sure most of them won’t even be single, but it’s none of his business.

Rousseau’s quiet beside him, quiet enough that David feels obliged to nudge his shoulder. Rousseau looks over at him.

“Gold,” David says quietly, half swallowed up by the din.

Rousseau grins at him, wide, all teeth.

“Look at you two,” Lapointe coos. “Come on, champagne.”

Champagne’s not really optional — you’re drinking it, or you’re getting sprayed by it, or both — and most of the room is sticky with it. Still it tastes better going down than it feels drying on his skin, though as soon as someone produces cans of Molson from thin air, David switches, as does Rousseau and, to David’s surprise, Lapointe, who didn’t seem like the kind of guy to pick Canadian over Moet.

Soon after they get to the Village, and the crowd of celebrating Canadians who were just as loud, if not louder, as David had expected, Lapointe disappeared to talk to his husband, a fact he cheerfully told them while David nodded, jerky, in response, and Rousseau pretended not to hear him.

It’s hard to find any quiet spot, but they manage to find one quiet compared to the rest of the room, and David can’t escape to his rooms after the way their line played, not without someone dragging him right back out. He doesn’t mind, really. He feels something like laughter in his chest, trying to get out, and when he does laugh it’s a foolish, giddy little thing.

He’d be embarrassed, but compared to the way the rest of the team’s acting right now, he’s got nothing to be embarrassed about. It draws another grin from Rousseau, too, who’s quiet beside him, going through beer faster than David, who’s feeling a little tipsy, he thinks, though it might just be the weight of a Gold medal on his chest, but seems almost completely sober. Maybe that’s just because he isn’t saying anything, though, because when David says, “Gold,” again, just to say it out loud, just to hear it and have someone else hear it, Rousseau goes “Fucking right,” still quiet, but happy sounding.

“Okay children,” Lapointe says, appearing again.

“M’your age,” Rousseau mutters.

“Time to pretend to have fun,” Lapointe continues, ignoring him.

“I am having fun,” David argues.

“Me too,” Rousseau adds.

David doesn’t know why Lapointe’s grinning at them like that.


	88. David; talking business

Dave’s used to parents. He thinks he’s pretty good with parents, actually — he’s made his reputation picking up young guys (that sounded better in his head), who may pan out, may not, but have a spark of potential that he’s good at identifying.

He’s used to parents worrying too much, to them being suspicious of him, reluctant to let their ‘baby boy’ go play somewhere that will afford the best opportunities for the draft. He’s used to answering a barrage of questions, walking them through the paperwork, setting them at ease.

He’s seen a lot of potential, but he doesn’t think he’s seen anything like the burst of David Chapman, undrafted by the OHL because he was a pipsqueak, and then tearing up the QMJHL like he took it personally and he wanted to make the OHL suffer for their mistakes. And oh, they’re suffering. It was an OHL scout who tipped Dave to him in the first place, bemoaning how foolish they all looked in the wake of Chapman’s growth spurt. They probably should, too, because he may have been small, but Dave’s watched his stuff, he was still really fucking good. 

Now though, now he’s going to be the best. The only contender he’s got is Jake Lourdes, and Dave loves that kid, but he’s too blunt force, is good, is fucking great, but not the way Chapman is, surgically precise, like he knows exactly what he’s doing a second before he does it, which leaves the opposing defence scrambling to keep up.

The point is, Chapman’s really fucking good, Dave wants him, because he knows he’s going to get there. Dave’s got the reputation – he had a client go second last draft, and Chapman clearly knows it, so it isn’t hard to get a meeting set up, Dave flying up to Ottawa for it, because he really, really fucking wants him. Never mind the fact that a 10% cut of that career would probably land him in the tens of millions, that’s business. As a hockey fan, Dave wants to be a part of this kid’s career.

Chapman seems shy when he meets him, a little withdrawn, the way most of the kids are when it comes to talking about the business side when they just want to play hockey. It’s his parents that Dave doesn’t get. His mother’s there, but she seems disinterested, not asking him any questions, not knowing the answers to the questions he has. That’s not common, but sometimes you get one hockey parent and one parent just along for the ride. It happens.

His father’s following the business side fine, which makes sense given the card Dave was given, one that implies that the deals he usually makes are in the millions, so this is all small shit to him. Chapman’s a minor, it’s in their hands, so Dave focuses on them, at first, careful to include Chapman in the discussion, until it becomes clear that Chapman’s the only one who seems to give a shit about what he’s saying, asking careful, intelligent questions. A smart, serious kid. Maybe that’s why his parents aren’t overly worried about him, though the fact he’s a smart, serious kid means that when Chapman’s father starts talking about financial control until he’s ‘more mature’ sets off alarm bells.

It takes a dinner and a meeting the next day in a rented conference room to hammer things out, and he gets the signatures of both parents with the least fuss he’s ever faced. You’d think he’d be relieved by that. Instead, before Chapman signs a thing, he kicks both parents out, father protesting. It isn’t exactly SOP, but he wants to be sure of one thing before Chapman joins his roster.

“Here’s the thing,” Dave says to Chapman, “You’re one of the best I’ve ever seen. You could go to anyone and have a successful career. You’re a sure bet. So here’s what I’m offering. I’m not going to lie to you, I’m not going to make you do shit you don’t want to do, and I don’t work for your parents, I work for you. I can’t promise you anything else, but I promise you that. So I’m going to ask while it’s just us: you want me to work for you?”

Chapman’s quiet for a minute. “Yes,” he says, finally.

“Okay,” Dave says. “Let’s get this shit done.”


	89. Mike/Liam; Liam's POV

He doesn’t mean to look. He’s gagging for it, that’s what Jeremy said, the ass, then acted like he was doing Liam a big favour by letting Liam jerk him off. That might be true, but Liam’s not some perv staring at everyone in the dressing room.

He noticed Mike Brouwer, though. Doesn’t remember him from watching the NHL growing up, like a lot of the other guys on the team, but it’s not like he’s ever had big minutes. He noticed him once he was drafted, since he’s basically Liam’s exact type, and he had an eye on him in camp, but it’s nothing like now.

Liam just — really fucking wants him, in a way he’s never wanted guys his age. Maybe because even the enforcer types his age don’t look like Mike does, gruff, broad, like he could take Liam down with a hand tied behind his back and make him beg for it.

Liam’s never wanted to beg for anyone. He likes the porn a lot and everything, but if Jeremy had asked Liam to beg him for anything he would have laughed in his face and never fucked around with him again.

It’s only gotten worse. Liam looks at the breadth of Mike’s shoulders, under the bulky pads, warm flannel, bare, still wet from the showers, and he thinks about the stretch it’d be, thighs bracketing them, about how sore it’d leave him. Looks at his hands, knuckles scabbed up from a recent fight, fingers thick and skin probably rough, and thinks about Mike’s calloused palm around his cock, tugging on just the right edge of too hard, or fingers scissoring in him, Mike’s other hand on Liam’s belly, holding him still. He’s got a beard — he didn’t have that at training camp — and all Liam can think of is the beard rash stinging his cheeks, the inside of his thighs.

So yeah, he’s gagging for it, whatever. Doesn’t mean he’s, like, following Mike into the showers or something. It’s just that there’s kind of a lot of nudity in the room for obvious reasons, and he doesn’t stare, but he doesn’t make a big deal out of it either. Darryl’s the kind of guy who talks to Liam about what they’re having for dinner while buck naked, and it’s not like Liam wants to jump all over him, because gross.

Reaction’s a bit different when he happens to look over at Mike’s stall as Mike’s in the process of shucking his towel and grabbing his underwear. He’s in no hurry about it, and Liam is in no hurry to look away, even if that does make him a perv.

Liam imagines Mike catching him looking, raising an eyebrow, gesturing him over. Looking him over, a smirk pulling the corner of his mouth, before he gets his hand on Liam’s shoulder, pushes him to his knees right in the middle of the locker room, says, “Suck,” voice hard, a command, and Liam takes him in as he gets hard, can manage it at first until Mike’s completely hard, thick, stretching his mouth wide. When he looks up Mike’s not even paying attention, having a conversation with one of the guys, but when he notices Liam’s watching, Mike strokes a hand through Liam’s hair, too rough to be a caress, says, “Better get it real wet, Fitzgerald, it’s going in your ass next.”

Liam looks away, cheeks heated. It’s a good thing he’s wearing pants, though he doesn’t have to look down to know he’s probably visibly hard in them. He wills it down with a fuckload of practice, waits until Mike’s dressed, then wanders over to Mike’s stall.

Mike raises an eyebrow at him as he comes over, and honestly, it’s all Liam can do not to drop to his damn knees. “What’s up Fitzgerald?” he asks.

“Can I sit with you on the flight back?” Liam asks.

“You and Tweedledum not getting along?” Mike asks.

“No, he’s being really annoying,” Liam says, then apologises silently to Ben, who hasn’t done anything wrong except not being someone Liam wants to climb like a tree.

“Sure, whatever,” Mike says, and Liam prepares for the absolute misery that will be sitting that close to Mike for hours, knees maybe touching, or thighs pressed together, fuck, maybe Mike falling asleep, the whole plane around them asleep, while Liam thinks about crawling between his thighs – or no, fuck, into his lap – and waking him up.

He’s looking forward to it, is the point.


	90. Anton; seeing papa play

The first game Vladimir returns east for is, luckily, two things: in New York, and on a Saturday night, so it’s easy to bundle Anton into the car after school Friday and do the familiar drive to her parents’ house. Anton’s been torn between plaintively asking whether his father left them forever and pretending he doesn’t care anyway, and for the past week he’s refused to come to the phone when Vladimir calls, even when Tonya’s tried to resort to bribing him with sweets, which makes her feel kind of like a failure as a mother, but she knows, however bad she feels about it, Vladimir must be feeling far worse.

The Oilers are doing a circuit of New York before heading up to Canada, so Tonya’s taken Monday and Tuesday off and called Anton’s school to do the same. His teacher prepared worksheets of what he’d miss, and Anton’s studiously working on math in the backseat as she swears under her breath once they leave Connecticut and everything gets slow both ways.

“Excited to see papa?” she asks, peering at Anton in the backseat. He’s got his tongue sticking out between his teeth, frowning in concentration, and he looks up, trains that frown at her. “Go see him play?”

“Jordie told me the Oilers suck,” Anton tells her.

Jordie’s a little shit who had a growth spurt a few months ago that left him towering over the rest of his team, and unleashed some latent bullying streak he must have had hidden. Him and Anton got along just fine until then, but now every time Tonya hears his name it’s some other crap he pulls, and every time he’s on the ice he ignores defense to go cannon-balling into other players, even though they’re supposed to be non-contact for years yet.

“The Oilers were very lucky to get your papa,” she says. “They are a much better team with him playing for them.”

“Does that mean the Whalers aren’t good anymore?” Anton asks, sounding worried. “Jordie said because he left they weren’t going to be good anymore, and that was his fault.”

Next game, Tonya’s going to have a talk with Jordie’s mother, she thinks.

“The Whalers are still good,” she says carefully. “And you know your papa didn’t choose to leave.”

“The Whalers didn’t want him anymore,” Anton says glumly.

Never mind, next game she’s going to have a talk with Jordie.

Trying to carefully explain how trades work, once again, to a seven year old, is practically enough to get them to Brooklyn, a little ahead of schedule. She’s barely parked before Anton’s throwing the door open, running up to the front stairs, the most enthusiastic she’s seen him since Vladimir went west.

“Who’s this kid making noise on my porch?” her father says, coming outside. “It can’t be my Antosha, you’re far too tall.”

“It’s me!” Anton tells him. “I grew!”

Her father squints. “It really is you!” he says. “Masha, come here, our grandson is as tall as a tree!”

Her mother comes to the door, mouth twitching. “And even more handsome too,” she says, and Anton scrunches his nose at her, looking vaguely offended to be called handsome. He takes offense at the oddest things — try as she might, Tonya can’t keep up with it.

“Ready to watch your father beat the Rangers tomorrow?” her father asks. He’s stooped a little to better look Anton in the eye.

“Yes!” Anton says.

“And lose to the Islanders on Monday?” he adds.

“Papa,” she chides.

“I still have loyalty, Tatiana,” he says, and she rolls her eyes at her mother, who rolls her eyes right back.

“Help Tonya with the bags,” she says. “Antosha, I made your favorite,” and then, when he’s tearing inside, “But you have to eat dinner first!”

That’s a lost cause. “He seems cheerful,” her mother says.

“First I’ve seen him like this all month,” Tonya says.

“Perhaps it’ll be better once he sees Vladimir,” her mother says.

“Perhaps,” Tonya says, but she has a sinking feeling. “Papa,” she says, once her father’s returned with the bags. “If you have him cheering for the Islanders — ”

“Can’t help it if he has taste,” he says mildly, then goes inside.

“He won’t,” her mother says firmly.

Well, at least that’s one worry handled. If only the rest of the weekend could be so easy.


	91. Carmen; harassing the interns

Sylvie is not having a good day. 

 

“Can you smile?” she asks Petrov beseechingly. She knows he’s capable of it. She’s seen him smile before. If she needs to bring Vincent in, she is not above it. She will kidnap Vincent herself if it makes Petrov look less like he’s there to threaten children, instead of talk about kids programs. She wouldn’t even need to kidnap him, honestly, she could probably just tell him the truth and he’d trot on over. Vincent’s good like that. She likes Vincent. 

 

Petrov only glowers harder at her. She looks over at Emile helplessly. Behind the camera, he shrugs. Petrov looks more like he’s prepared to eat children than push them towards success, but she has a feeling it would not be a good career move to say so. She’s lucky enough that Concordia’s considering this journalism experience: she really isn’t seeing how wrangling grumpy hockey players counts, but she’s not complaining. She thought there’d be more coffee buying, honestly. Which she might actually prefer, right now. She’s got Lapointe and Carmen coming up. Lapointe’s either a dream or a nightmare, depending on his mood, and Carmen’s always, well — he’s interesting, at least. 

 

“Why don’t you talk about how you came to play hockey?” she tries.   
Petrov blinks slowly at her. “My dad was in the NHL,” he says, as if she’s slightly slow herself.

 

“But he was a goalie, right?” she asks, glancing at Emile again in confirmation. He shoots her a thumbs up. “So why don’t you talk about why you wanted to play defence?”

 

“I liked it best,” Petrov says unhelpfully.

 

“Why?” she prompts.

 

He shrugs one shoulder. “I was good at it,” he says finally.

 

Sylvie silently counts to ten. “What advice do you have for kids who want to play, even if they’re not initially good at it?” she asks, and she’s utterly amazed it comes out even.

 

“Do something else?” Petrov says.

 

Emile’s cracking up behind the camera, but all Sylvie feels is despair.

 

*

 

She crosses her fingers that Lapointe’s in a good mood.

 

He’s not. 

 

*

 

“Carmen, I am not in the mood,” Sylvie says, preemptively. “I just had Petrov and Lapointe.”

 

Carmen grins at her. “My dear Sylvie,” he says. “What are you talking about? I’m a delight.”

 

Emile snorts loudly. 

 

“Emile, that’s hurtful,” Carmen adds.

 

Sylvie shakes her head slightly, but she can’t help the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Carmen’s the only one who not only knows them all by name, but makes a point of greeting them by it. He acts like they’re colleagues, rather than like they’re physically torturing him by making him do media. Maybe because he likes doing media, that’s more than clear enough, but regardless, it’s nice to have someone smile at her rather than look at her with dread or discomfort. Vincent is mostly the same, and has the bonus of not being incorrigible, but beggars can’t be choosers.

 

He gives good interview, she’ll give him that. He usually jokes around a lot, breaking it up, but either her plaintive request worked or he isn’t in the mood himself, because he gives a semi-serious interview about what kids should do if they want to play, and they wrap it up earlier than she’d even hoped.  
“I’m hungry,” Carmen says. “Are you hungry?”

 

It’s past two, and Sylvie had a bagel from the staff kitchen at nine. They packed the interviews tight today, and she’s ravenous. Maybe they didn’t think they were doing it, maybe they thought it’d be a loose off day, but since she basically had to pull teeth with Petrov’s interview, and Lapointe was downright surly, there’s barely been a moment to breathe, and she used the last break to go to the bathroom and have a smoke.

 

“Yeah,” Sylvie says. “I think there should still be stuff in the kitchen?”

 

“Nah, let’s go get something,” Carmen says. “You’re done, right?”

 

“Done for today,” Sylvie says, then looks over at Emile, who raises his eyebrows back at her.

 

“You too, Emile,” Carmen says.

 

“Pass,” Emile says. “I promised my sister I’d help her move. But you two go ahead.”

 

So much for actually having input. But she’s starving, and she likes Carmen well enough, so it’s fine.

 

“You better be treating,” Emile adds. 

 

“Duh,” Carmen says.

 

“I’m standing right here,” Sylvie says. 

 

“You’re a student,” Emile retorts.

 

“A student who is standing right here,” Syvlie mutters under her breath in French, but Emile just smirks at her.

 

Carmen bops along the sidewalk like he’s got a beat in his head and springs in his shoes. Sylvie would kill to have his energy, but she probably wouldn’t stick to the exercise routine he does if it would literally save her life, so she’s got no room to complain.

 

“I want smoked meat,” Carmen says. “Dunn’s?”

 

“Dude, even I know Dunn’s is on the ban list with the nutritionists,” Sylvie says.

 

“Would you tell them?” Carmen asks. He’s somehow made his eyes bigger, like some ridiculous emoji.

 

“Get the lean shit and buy me a milkshake,” Sylvie bargains.

 

“You blackmailer,” Carmen says, sounding faintly admiring.

 

“I’m going to need a yes or no,” Sylvie says.

 

“Ma’am, yes ma’am,” Carmen says, even throwing in a salute. “If I can have a sip.”

 

“Are you honestly trying to bargain with your blackmailer?” Sylvie asks.

 

Carmen shoots her his best winning grin. It’s pretty good, honestly.

 

“Don’t make me the rat, Carmen,” she says, and he grins even wider, all teeth. Bright white, the kind of grin to be jealous of, if Sylvie didn’t know at least a quarter of them are caps or implants. Maybe the dentists throw in whitening for their most loyal customers. They must make a killing off hockey players.  
Carmen does order the lean, and Sylvie orders a vanilla milkshake, as promised, and bleu nuit poutine, which she hunches over protectively in the face of Carmen’s obvious interest once it arrives.

 

“Poutine is definitely banned,” she says.

 

“I’m just trying to be an authentic Montrealer,” Carmen protests, and Sylvie snorts.

 

“Good luck with that, chéri,” she says.

 

Carmen beams at her. It’s slightly frightening, and very sweet, which is even more frightening. 

 

“What?” she asks.

 

“Chéri means darling,” Carmen tells her, like it’s something she wasn’t aware of. 

 

“Sort of,” she says.

 

“You called me darling,” Carmen says.

 

“I take it back,” Sylvie says.

 

“No take backs,” Carmen says, and Sylvie’s distracted from mocking the fact he’s apparently in elementary school when he tries to do a stealth attack on her poutine, one which is quickly quelled with a jab of her fork.

 

“Foul play,” Carmen says.

 

“Yeah, throw me in the box,” Sylvie says, and ducks her head when Carmen starts grinning again.


	92. Fournier, Connors; 'small talk'

Michel sees Thomas coming a split second before impact, with just enough time to brace himself before he’s hit with 180 pounds of enthusiastic force.

“Yes hello I missed you too,” Michel says breathlessly, wrapping an arm around Thomas’ shoulders. He means it too, but that doesn’t mean he resists wryness. Honestly, it’s just nice to be greeted like this. The girls haven’t done it since they entered kindergarten, and Chloe would laugh herself sick if he suggested she do it.

Ramos raises an eyebrow at him, and Michel shrugs back as much as he can with Vinny’s face buried in his neck. Halfway down the hall Petrov’s stopped following Thomas and turned around like if he pretends he wasn’t doing it, no one will notice, but Michel notices. Same as always in Montreal, he guesses.

He was expecting Thomas for dinner tonight, knew he’d be sliding over in warm ups tomorrow, but apparently the practice facility scheduled the Canadiens practice right on the heels of the Blackhawks practice. Poor planning, especially if there was any specific tension between the teams, but Michel and Ramos are part of the stragglers, so it’s harmless enough, once Michel gets his breath back. Braced or no, 180 pounds is a little different when it hits you without padding attached. He thinks if Thomas thought he could have gotten away with a flying leap, he would have tried.

“Hi Mich,” Thomas says brightly, pulling his face out of Michel’s neck.

“Hi Vinny,” Michel says dryly, freeing a hand so he can wave Ramos along, because he suspects he’ll be there until Gagnon drags Thomas away for practice. He doesn’t mind. Dangers of billeting the human equivalent of an especially enthusiastic puppy.

“How are things?” Thomas asks.

“You spoke to me yesterday, Tommo,” Michel reminds him.

“Things could have happened,” Thomas says.

“The girls want a dog,” Michel says. Perhaps he could keep Vinny instead. He’s sure they wouldn’t mind the substitute, though Petrov would kill him in his sleep.

He recognises most of the group coming down the hall, can identify the guys he doesn’t personally know. Serge is heading it up, unsurprisingly, and grins wide when he sees Michel, one Michel returns. He’s coming over with Vinny tonight, though Vinny has made it very clear that he has dibs on the twins, and Michel let him think that was a sacrifice Serge would have to make, rather than a relief for a man juggling four kids and a hockey team and likely pleased he’d get a night of adult conversation.

Petrov’s shuffling in the middle of the pack like he was there all along. Michel just can’t with him, sometimes.

Michel gently detaches Thomas, who reluctantly untangles himself. “Practice,” Michel says.

“Can I just hang out with you?” Thomas asks. “I’m not even playing tomorrow.”

It’s not a request made in earnest, despite the tone. “Share,” Serge says mildly behind Thomas, and Thomas grumbles but lets go completely, allowing Serge to tug Michel in for a one-armed hug.

He gets a quick round from most of the others, another snuck in by Vinny, which gets fond laughter from those who haven’t made their way into the locker room already, minus the serious, solid presence Michel’s mostly been ignoring.

“Go,” Michel says, smacking Thomas’ ass and sending him on his way.

Connors is almost in the room before Michel says, “Wait,” and he pauses.

“Jeff Connors,” he says finally, offering a hand.

Michel takes it, holds for a long moment. “I know who you are.”

“Well, good game tomorrow,” Connors says, once Michel’s dropped his hand, glancing back towards the room.

“Listen,” Michel says. “I was with that team for ten years.”

“I know,” Connors says. “Look, it’s not like I made the trade --”

“I’m not talking about the trade,” Michel says impatiently. If they hadn’t gotten Connors for a steal at the deadline they might have had to move someone valuable to get a goalie, but he knew they were going to do something to shake up the tandem. Vinny had seemed to think he was the one to go, but he was cheap and, more importantly, a fan and player favourite. His time was up the moment they bowed out of the playoffs, and blaming Connors would be foolish and shortsighted. “These are good guys. Most of them. I worry about Carmen sometimes.”

Connors doesn’t even crack a smile. “I know they are,” he says, cautious sounding.

“You fuck with them I’m going to fuck you up,” Michel says. “Have a lovely day.”

He starts whistling once he reaches the parking lot. He has dinner to prepare.


	93. Hank McGregor; officially compromised

Hank doesn’t know what the protocol for this situation is. A player potentially pissed about the last game, sure, you let the linesmen and the other ref know and they keep an eye out, but in Hank’s experience you don’t go from generally upstanding citizen to game misconduct, outside of brawls, especially for something as fucking stupid and unnecessary as abuse of an official.

He’s reluctant to let the other guys know about the last game, because that’ll put a bullseye on Davies, and he’s generally clean. If Hank blacklisted every player who told him to suck their cock that’d be half the fucking league, probably, but Davies didn’t tell him to, just said that Hank would, and that’s worse for some reason he doesn’t want to think about.

It’s not like he can just avoid him and hope Davies will do the same, either. Hank deals with captains every single day of his job, when he’s not dealing with their assistant captains, all cajoling in the hopes of mitigating penalties for their guys. Some are clean themselves — Davies is one of them — some of them play filthy — last game Lourdes gave him big puppy dog eyes and an innocent look and Hank nearly laughed in his face — but all of them have been given the role of negotiator, and whether Davies is pissed or embarrassed or what, he’s not going to shirk his job, Hank knows that much.

Hank throws him a bone. A leap of faith, assuming he’s not going to start shit again, which he probably isn’t. Honestly, Davies deserves no less than four officials hounding him all game, waiting for him to step out of line, after the histrionics of the last Red Wings game Hank officiated, but again, Hank’s always believed more in general conduct than outlying occurrences.

“You’re full of shit, McGregor,” he mutters under his breath, because may as well acknowledge it. If he’s going to pick favourites, well — he shouldn’t, first off, but if he does, he should at least be able to admit it to himself. Not that Davies deserves shit, after that display, but then, it wasn’t much of an incident, really. If he gave out game misconducts every time shit got said, under the breath and to his face, there’d be no one left on the ice. Davies was a little more creative, sure, but it’s stuck with him because it was so out of character, and because — fucking admit it, McGregor — Hank plays favourites, and his favourite noticed. His favourite noticed, and threw the fact in his goddamn face, which is probably what he deserved.

So Hank doesn’t say shit to the guys officiating with him before the game and crosses his fingers that his decision doesn’t blow up in his face.

Davies is D, so there’s no real reason for him to skate up to Hank before the puck drops, but Hank doesn’t wave him away, for reasons he’s not particularly interested in examining. “I want to apologise,” Davies says.

“So apologise,” Hank says.

Davies smiles, just a curl at the corner of his mouth, not the kind of grin Hank gets from the worst jokes, but something.

“I’m sorry,” Davies says, obliging. “The shit I said — it was totally inappropriate and uncalled for.”

He sounds like he’s regurgitating the carefully crafted speech of PR or an agent, but Hank would stake money on Davies never repeating a word he said, even when inevitably asked in the face of a completely uncharacteristic misconduct. It’s the kind of thing a good Midwestern boy would be mortified by. Should be mortified by, frankly.

“Yep,” Hank says. “It was. And it’s forgotten. Get back in position.”

Davies shoots him another smile then, wider, and it’s all Hank can do not to smile back.

Davies is, unsurprisingly, on his best behaviour for the entire game. The Red Wings haven’t gotten the notice, however, also unsurprising, considering they’re playing divisional rivals, and Davies spends a considerable amount of time bargaining with both Hank and Amhurst, trying to keep his men in the game.

Both teams are being shits, in Hank’s professional opinion. It’s a lot of shoving matches, dirty hits, and scuffling every time it occurs. Reddad is as much in it as Davies, constantly negotiating, and Davies is fucking lucky Hank didn’t hand him to the other officials on a platter, because the game would have gone to Cleveland, on the pure basis on power plays, barring a miracle. As it is, the teams are neck and neck in dirty play, and Cleveland does win it, but only in overtime.

After the game, Davies comes over. Hank doesn’t look at him. “Take it up with Toronto,” he says, referring to a Red Wings goal, in Amhurst’s opinion, that was later overturned by the goal review in headquarters. Not his goal call, not his opinion, not his problem, and he’s not interested in arguing it.

“No, I wanted to say thanks,” Davies says.

“For?” Hank asks.

“Not fucking me — us over,” Davies says. “So. Thanks.”

“Why would I do that?” Hank asks.

“You had plenty reason to,” Davies says. “You know that.”

Hank shrugs.

“I’m a shit,” Davies says, and Hank almost shrugs again, instead stifles a laugh. “I — you’re a good ref, McGregor.”

“I try,” Hank says, dry.

“Can I — can I buy you a drink or something?” Davies asks.

“That’s pretty blatantly not allowed,” Hank says, flat, because, well. It’s pretty blatantly not allowed. Hank’s personal response to the question is irrelevant — it’s a massive conflict of interest.

“Shit, fuck,” Davies says. “I’m fucking this up.”

“It’s an enjoyable fuck up, at least,” Hank says, and Davies scowls at him. “Calm down, Jordan, I’m not going to report you to the commissioner.”

“What’s your name?” Davies asks, and Hank blinks. “I mean — aw, fuck. I feel like you’ve been around my entire career —”

Well, Hank feels ancient now, thank you Jordan Davies.

“ — but you’re just McGregor. But you know my name, so. What’s your name?”

“Hank,” Hank tells him. “Use it on the ice and I’ll impale you with your own stick.”

“That’s fair,” Davies says, that grin right back on his face, that contagious, irrepressible grin.

Hank fucking hates himself for it, but every time he sees the smile he can’t help but return it.


	94. Thomas Vincent; language

Thomas has always been good at English. He started school in English immersion, his parents concerned he wouldn’t succeed if he only knew French. It made sense, in hindsight. Sudbury’s got a huge French population, for Ontario, but it’s still primarily Anglo, and while his parents both had French specific jobs, Ontario’s always going to be Anglo, and it’s not like they expected an NHL career for him, not at five years old. At that point he was still skating shakily along, goalie whenever it was his turn to be, wearing the worn down pads they all shared, because no parent was shelling out for goalie pads at that age. Small for his age, and they’ve got a picture of his first game as goalie, swallowed up by the padding, grinning wide.

His grandfather was overjoyed when he decided he wanted to keep being a goalie, his parents probably less so. Less impressed that they put him in English as soon as they were able. Thomas remembers the pride, the fact his first custom goalie mask came from his grandfather, and also the fact that his grandfather would quiz him in French, trying to catch him unsure of something he should know at his age, afraid he’d be just another Anglo in a country filled with them.

Thomas has always been good at French too, though, and he did just fine. Had the only perfect grade in his class when they started French classes in the fourth grade, and kept that grade up, blinking in surprise at how rudimentary everything was, and how much others struggled. He had Anglo friends, more than Franco — he never spoke a word of French to Megan until she was struggling in grade nine French and demanded he conduct every conversation with her in French, a demand he obliged, and which raised her grade by an entire letter. Still, it wasn’t until Sault Ste. Marie that he lost French, a little. The city, despite the name, was overwhelmingly English, the guys on his team were exclusively Anglo, and the only French he had was calls home and the too easy French classes in school, even AP French.

He didn’t realise how much he missed it until Hamilton, with a half-dozen Francophones on the roster, patient with him when he’d forget a word, or not know one, since his entire French education had been school and family, so he was missing some of the key words. It was Fourns and Chloe, when he came up, though, that gave him a crash course in everything his parents wouldn’t have said, filthy Quebecois, a multiplicity of literally profane French that would likely have his grandmother shaking her head at him in disapproval, though he mostly limits it to the ice, so his grandfather, at least, would understand.

It’s easy, English, easier than French for him, a lot of the time. He’s used to being Tah-mus Vin-sent, but it’s nice to reach the Habs, to be Toe-mah Vahn-san (twenty five, Carmen dubs him, after mistaking vingt-cinq for his name, and thinking the press was referencing Thomas rather than Carmen’s own jersey number) again, to slip, fluid, from one language to another, and know he’s still understood.


	95. Thomas Vincent, Fourniers; the death of Dinosaur Vinny

“Once upon a time there was a stegosaurus named Vinny. He —”

“Is that you?”

“It is, great guess, Olivia. Now, one day Dinosaur Vinny looked around the world and thought he wanted to see it all, explore — ”

“Are you seriously giving your dinosaur backstory?”

“Shush, papa, Uncle Vinny’s telling us a story and you’re ruining it!”

“Sorry, Loch Ness, carry on ‘Uncle Vinny’.”

“It’s Vanessa, I hate Loch Ness!”

“A man can’t win when he has children, Vinny, a man can’t win.”

“Why are you talking English? I don’t understand English!”

(murmured) “Thank god.”

(loudly) “So one day Dinosaur Vinny decided that he was going to go on an adventure. He said goodbye to his mom and dad Dinosaur, and he started the long walk to Sault Ste. Marie.”

“Oh great, it’s a teenaged dinosaur.”

“PAPA.”

“Okay, sorry!”

“He met many friends in Sault Ste. Marie, but he still wanted to travel. So he said goodbye to all his friends there, and started walking to Hamilton, where he made even more friends, but guess what?”

“He still wanted to travel?”

“That’s right Olivia. So he once again packed all his things, sure that he would find the perfect place for him soon. And where do you think he went?”

“Montreal!”

“Right! So he reached Montreal, and went to see if he could find some friends. One of the first dinosaurs he met was a big, tall T-Rex named Michel. ‘Hello Michel!’ he said, ‘I’ve traveled very far, all across Ontario, to find a new home, but I think it might be here in Montreal!’”

“Perhaps,’ T-Rex Michel says, ‘but it won’t be home for long, because I’m hungry and you look like just the snack for me!’ And then he ate him.”

“YOU KILLED HIM.”

“It’s what t-rexes do, Olivia, they have to eat!”

“He just wanted to explore and you KILLED HIM.”

(two sets of thundering footsteps upstairs)

“MAMA MAMA PAPA KILLED UNCLE VINNY.”

“I hate you sometimes.”

“You’re the one who killed me.”

“I lied, I hate you all the time.”

“MICHEL WHY IS OLIVIA CRYING?”

“Oh fuck.”

“You are in so much trouble.”

“Oh fuck me, hide me.”

“No, you killed — Mich, stop grabbing me. Ow!”

(footsteps downstairs)

“Oh for christ’s sake, Michel, you’re taller than him, you can’t hide behind him.”

(whispered) “Human shield.”

“I would like to be able to cook dinner without my daughter crying because you — Michel, come out here at once. You look ridiculous.”

(whispered) “I look safe from harm.”

“Stop muttering to yourself and come out from behind the poor boy.”

“WHY ARE YOU ALL TALKING ENGLISH, I DON’T UNDERSTAND ENGLISH!”

(in unison) “Thank god.”

“Indoor voice, Vanessa, please. Where’s your sister?”

“She’s crying in our room.”

“I am a terrible parent.”

“Thank you for stating the obvious. Vanessa, can you tell your sister to come down for dinner? And that we found stegosaurus Vinny safe and sound, because he was only pretending to be hurt so the evil t-rex would leave him alone?”

“Is that what happened, Uncle Vinny?”

“It is. Dinosaur Vinny has a few tricks up his dinosaur sleeves.”

(doubtfully) “Okay. I’ll go get her.”

“And could you set the table too, my sweet? Just the cutlery, I left it out for you.”

“You make me do everything!”

“Someone gets an allowance for setting the table.”

“FINE.” (feet thundering upstairs)

“Did you have to kill him? You know how Olivia gets.”

“I was a t-rex!”

“Couldn’t you have been a friendly t-rex?”

“No, I was a t-rex! That’s what they do! Vinny, back me up on this.”

“You killed and ate me.”

“I didn’t know you’d take it so personally.”

“Mon dieu, would you two stop bickering and come upstairs. Thomas, can you set the table? Not the cutlery, Vanessa needs to do that.”

“Do I get an allowance too?”

“You get dinner if you don’t push it. And you are going to apologise to the stupid dinosaur at dinner.”

(hurt) “I’m not a stupid dinosaur.”

“You are not a dinosaur at all! When did I sign on for four children instead of two?”

“When you married Mich?”

“Unhelpful, Tommo.”


	96. Jaya Singh, Riley Lapointes; family and hockey, not in that order

If Jaya’s mother has ever come to a game, Jaya doesn’t remember. Maybe she did, when Jaya was five and just starting, when it was a bunch of kids wobbling on skates, trudging to the puck, not a sport, just kids being kids. Maybe she didn’t even come for that. Honestly, Jaya doesn’t blame her. She has other things in her life, works too many hours, and if she had the choice of an hour in front of the TV or girls scrapping, she’ll take Coronation Street.

If Jaya’s father has ever missed a game, Jaya doesn’t remember that either, except for once, when he was so sick he could barely get out of bed, and still arranged a carpool with the goalie so she didn’t miss the game.

After awhile, her father started sitting with Marc, or Dan, or the both of them, depending on the night, and everyone seemed shocked. Jaya felt that way too, and then immediately guilty about it. They’ve been carpooling, her and Charlie, but that doesn’t mean her father doesn’t come, just that Jaya goes to Charlie’s after school, because it’s closer, does her homework there, even with Charlie doing her best to distract her, and then goes with Dan, or Marc, or the both of them, but when she looks into the stands, her father’s always sitting there.

If people have their talismans, their superstitions, Jaya thinks her father might be hers. Wonders if he’d follow along to an international tournament, which is selfish, because they don’t have the money for that kind of expense. Daydreams about playing in the CWHL, looking up to see her father in the stands, every game. Sometimes she even imagines her mother there.

Charlie’s got bigger dreams, if no more unrealistic. Charlie dreams of lifting the Stanley Cup, when Jaya’s still amazed that she actually got to sit in it, that her fathers let her run around with Stanley Cup rings slipping off her fingers, each of them probably worth more than Jaya’s family’s car, the lot of them clattering around like costume jewelry, ugly as anything but still thousands upon thousands of dollars of success. The Leafs are sapphires, the CH rubies, probably, though maybe something else, whatever gem is gold-ish for the Senator, topaz, maybe. All of them glitter with diamonds, and Marc just waved a negligent hand and let Jaya try them on as well, cold metal on her finger, heavy, they’re so large.

Charlie wants a Stanley Cup, even though the only women in the NHL still have only been goaltenders, still haven’t been more than a cheap publicity stunt instead of a genuine effort, never even playing regular season, let alone the Finals. Charlie says she’d steamroll everyone and she might not be wrong, but Jaya knows that no one will ever give her the chance, Marc Lapointe’s daughter or not.

Charlie wants Gold, and she wants Jaya with her for it, and that’s more achievable, that’s featured in Jaya’s daydreams as well, but honestly, Jaya will just settle for the U-16 Provincials right now, while Charlie’s off imagining the Olympics. Charlie says Jaya needs to dream bigger, but Jaya thinks Charlie should dream a little smaller, for once, because the tournament’s coming up in Quebec City next week, and they’re good, they’ve got this, but only if they keep their heads in the game.

She’d never accuse Charlie of not taking hockey seriously. If anything, she takes hockey too seriously, so seriously that it makes Jaya look relaxed, and even Marc told her to chill once, which led to the longest two weeks of Jaya’s life, because every time Charlie opened her mouth it was either about hockey or how horrible her father was, and any other topic Jaya tentatively brought up was immediately dismissed. She also refused to speak French, or, ‘my father-tongue’, said with a lot a bitterness and loudly in Marc’s direction. That nearly got her suspended in school, after she’d been asked about fifteen times to switch to French, just in Jaya’s hearing, and Jaya only had two classes with her.

So Jaya guesses she takes her father seriously too, not just hockey, but that just seems silly to Jaya, while she understands Charlie’s drive on the ice, if not her aggression when she isn’t doing well, or her tendency to linger on things that went wrong. Jaya does too, but not like this.

“I swear to god,” Charlie says. “If that Demson bitch goes after you again I’m throwing the mitts off.”

“No you’re not,” Leon says, not looking up from his homework, while Dan calls over, “you’d leave your team in the lurch during Provincials?”, which is a pretty good point, Jaya thinks, since fighting’s an automatic suspension, and Charlie and Jaya are the first D pairing. It’d be stupid, and Charlie doesn’t play stupid hockey. She’s just a little stupid off the ice, sometimes, not stupid, but definitely someone who acts before she thinks, which is maybe uncharitable, but if Jaya said it, Charlie would probably just laugh and agree. Not that Jaya’s ever going to say it.

“Who’s Demson again?” Jaya asks.

Charlie gapes at her. “She only practically flattened you when we played in Trois-Rivières,” she says. “How can you forget that?”

Jaya blinks at her. “That was last year.”

“You almost died!” Charlie says.

Jaya blinks again. “Since I barely even remember it, I don’t think that’s true,” she says.

Leon reaches over to her with a closed fist, hidden under the table, and Jaya bumps it gently. She bets he wanted to say it, but knew Charlie would blow up at him. Sometimes Charlie blows up at him just for being in the same place as them, and she complains about him constantly, but when one of their classmates said Leon didn’t even count as a Lapointe since he was pretty much just trash picked up from the streets, Charlie punched him before Jaya could, so Jaya knows Charlie’s got Leon’s back, even if he doesn’t.

Marc and Dan do too, since Charlie was actually suspended for that one, but so was that asshole, for hate speech, so Charlie considered it a victory, and it was probably the most proud Jaya’s ever been of her.

Still.

“No fighting,” Jaya says sternly, and Charlie heaves out a loud sigh, but nods.


	97. Riley Lapointes; science fair!

“This is so unfair,” Charlie says.

“Because you are obviously more important than—” Marc starts, and Dan cuts him off before he can finish, because that’ll just end in a fight, which he’s too tired to deal with right now, even if he kind of wants to snap at Charlie himself.

“Rahul will drive you and Jaya to the game,” Dan says.

“Because obviously you don’t care enough to go,” Charlie snaps. “Why can’t you come to my game and make papa go?”

Marc rolls his eyes so expressively Dan can’t blame Charlie for looking like she wants to hit him, but if Dan hadn’t been inured to this long ago, he’d probably be rolling his eyes too. He is a little, on the inside, but someone here has to be the adult, and it’s definitely not the teenager in front of him, or, unfortunately, his husband.

“Have I ever missed one of your tournaments?” Dan asks.

“No,” Charlie says, reluctant.

“Playoff games?” Dan asks.

“You were sick last year,” Charlie mutters.

“But your papa went to those,” Dan says.

“What’s your point?” Charlie snaps.

“So why do you think it’d be fair for us to miss something important to Leon because you have a game?” Dan asks.

“Because it’s stupid,” Charlie explodes. “And you like hockey, you aren’t scientists, you’re hockey players.”

“Even if I didn’t like hockey I’d still be going to your games,” Dan says. “I’d go even if you picked up, like. Lacrosse or something.”

“Gross,” Charlie mutters.

“Rahul will pick you up at five-fifteen,” Dan says. “You good by yourself until then?”

“I’m fourteen, not four,” Charlie says.

Could fool Dan sometimes, honestly. This is basically the equivalent of when Leon would reach for one of Charlie’s toys as a toddler and she’d have the sudden need to play with it, just because Leon had shown an interest.

“Okay, love you, have fun at your game,” Dan says, and Charlie crosses her arms and then stomps upstairs.

Marc sighs explosively.

“Don’t look at me,” Dan says. “She got that from you. You both use ‘obviously’ when you’re trying to guilt someone.”

“She did not,” Marc snaps. “And that is an obvious—”

Dan’s mouth twitches.

“Oh shut up,” Marc mutters, and steals the car keys from Dan’s jeans before Dan can stop him.

Leon and Marc have been very secretive about Leon’s science fair project, and when Dan finds his exhibit in the crowd, he knows exactly why.

He glares at Marc. “I’m glaring at you,” he hisses.

“Yes, Dan, I do have eyes,” Marc says. “But he is going to win!”

From the noise of the people clustered around Leon, that does seem likely. Dan is not impressed. Leon’s project is something that Dan remembers from high school, the way different materials make different coloured flames, but Dan’s kind of stuck on the fact that apparently his eleven year old has been playing with fire unsupervised — he is now withdrawing Marc’s supervision rights, what the fuck, Marc.

“Winning is not worth setting yourself on fire!” Dan snaps. What the fuck elementary school lets the kids use bunsen burners anyway, Dan is rethinking everything.

“We used safety goggles,” Marc says.

“Did you have a fire extinguisher around?” Dan asks.

“Yes, actually!” Marc says, sounding proud.

“Dad!” Dan hears. He’d wonder how Leon saw him through the crowd, but he’s used to being the tallest person in the room.

“We’re talking about this later,” Dan says, and wades through.

“Hey bud,” Dan says.

Leon grins at him behind safety goggles — at least there’s that, and what seems to be a science teacher supervising, which is a little more comforting than Marc.

He starts chatting excitedly to Dan in French, and Dan lets it wash over him. Leon isn’t talkative, not the way Marc and Charlie are, more like Dan himself, unless he’s talking about one of his passions. Dan probably wouldn’t follow in English, anyway, he hears at least a couple non-French words, Latin, he thinks, chemical names, probably. Science never was his subject. Like Marc and Charlie, though, he isn’t much concerned as to whether Dan’s following, just as long as he listens.

“Awesome?” Dan hears. It’s Leon’s favourite English word.

“It’s pretty awesome, Lee,” Dan agrees. It is. Dan’s going to kill Marc, but it is, and Leon’s grin is huge. There’s no way Dan’s undermining it.

“Is papa here?” Leon asks him as Marc finally wades through the crowd. He turns the chatter on Marc, then, and a woman that Dan recognises as the principal tells him in French that he should be very proud.

“I am,” Dan says honestly. Amazed that his son hasn’t caught on fire or set his father on fire, but proud.

Leon’s bristol board is entirely in French, but even Dan can see it’s better than the other ones, packed with details in bullet form and paragraphs, supported by pictures that were taken in their garage.

Leon does another demonstration, the judges clustered close, and it’s all Dan can do not to grab him by the waist and haul him away from the flame, but he’s careful about it, concentrating, brow furrowed and bottom lip between his teeth. He gets oohs and aahs like you get in response to fireworks, a brilliant blue flame lighting up his face.

He does, in the end, get first prize, and he’s beaming the whole way home, chatting with Marc, clutching the trophy to himself like Dan remembers doing at his age, uncaring that the hard plastic’s digging in, cradling it to himself because it’s precious. No more or less precious than the Stanley Cup rings, really, except for the fact they’re Cup rings, but those trophies still have pride of place at his parents’, Marc’s at his parents’, and Dan has no doubt Marc’s going to stick that downstairs beside his Olympic Golds.

When Leon’s jumping out of the car Dan catches him before he can get too far, tugs him in. “I’m really proud of you, you know?” Dan says.

“I know,” Leon says, easy as anything, before darting ahead.

“You’re in the shit, Lapointe,” Dan says, once Leon’s out of hearing range.

“I know,” Marc says, easy as Leon, and unrepentantly follows Leon in.


	98. Gabe/Stephen; carpool

I was looking at rental properties in Shaughnessy, and there’s a four bedroom house that’s so sweet and bright and them it hurts. Also so expensive it hurts just to look at, but that’s Vancouver for you, and it’s not the bbs can’t afford it. Also today I learned the Canucks practice at UBC, which is convenient!

For my three-way second place tie-ers on the quiz, who all wanted Gabe/Stephen should they win, so I figured I’d pick a prompt that would hopefully serve as a decent consolation prize.

I always forget how much I love writing Gabe POV until I do it again. 

The place they moved off Granville street is a nine minute drive to Rogers Arena, an eleven minute drive to UBC, and fourteen minute drive to the airport. Gabe tested it, before he leased it, did the drive at eight at night, as a test, which got those results, and then during rush hour, which was less fun, and had the added bonus of Stephen mocking him mercilessly from the passenger seat for being a nerd, and then finally, did a public transportation run to see if it was a doable commute that way. Stephen also teased him for including UBC in all the runs before Stephen even started there, but hey, they practice at UBC, it’s a selfish test. Stephen doesn’t seem to buy it, but whatever. They do practice at UBC. 

The rent’s brutal, more than ten percent of his salary, but he knows that spending that salary percentage on your rent is a downright deal, and it’s not like him and Stephen can’t afford it, just that writing up the rent cheques made him feel like he was setting money on fire. It’s beautiful, though, a bright kitchen that looks out on sprawling green, all shiny hardwood and huge windows, a place that feels like home before they even put anything of theirs in it. A grown-up house, the kind you build a life in, the kind that’s hard to leave.

“We’re twenty-two, not forty,” Stephen says, when Gabe voices that, a scoff in his own voice, but he’s as in love with it as Gabe is, spent that first walk through touching everything, almost tentative, like it would disappear, so visibly infatuated Gabe almost asked the owner, straight up, how much it’d cost to buy it from her. But hockey careers don’t have a guaranteed length. They’re both brutally aware of that fact. Staying with the Canucks isn’t necessarily for good, either. Neither are they, technically, but Gabe’s more sceptical on that front, thinks — knows — that when Stephen quit running it was for good, and that if he could handle Stephen in diapers and pre-verbal, he can handle anything.

“I was a baby at the time,” Stephen says, sounding longsuffering. “You were too. An even littler baby.”

“A cuter baby,” Gabe says, and Stephen rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. “Even your mom said so.”

“She did not,” Stephen hisses.

She totally did, last time her and his mom were looking through baby pictures. Gabe probably should have kept that a secret, though.

The point is, though, the house feels like a centre, Rogers Arena to the North, UBC to the West, the airport to the South, nestled in among the places that keep Gabe centered. They’re completely moved in by the time Stephen’s first day at UBC rolls around, and Gabe lurks over him as he eats breakfast, twirling his car keys around his finger.

“I’m just going to take the bus,” Stephen says, then, “quit it, that’s so annoying.”

“I can drive you,” Gabe says.

“Don’t need a ride, mom,” Stephen says, and Gabe kicks his ankle lightly, keeps spinning the keys, just because it’s annoying. “Seriously, Gabe, I am capable of taking the bus, it takes like twenty minutes.”

“Humour me,” Gabe says.Stephen does — he usually does, in the end, though that doesn’t extend to when Gabe puts the car in park. If he craned his neck around he’d see their practice facility.

“You are not getting out of this car,” Stephen says.

“Am I embarrassing you, honey?” Gabe asks.

“If you get out you’re going to get mobbed,” Stephen says. 

“Yeah, I’m totally like Garmin level famous,” Gabe says, rolling his eyes.

“You don’t need to be,” Stephen says. 

Gabe isn’t going to push it — he isn’t Garmin level, meaning he isn’t Vancouver’s Personal Messiah, but they’ve still got Cup goodwill in this city, had a solid season to follow up, and he would, more likely than not, get stopped for a picture if he walked Stephen to class. Stephen doesn’t say anything when Gabe gets stopped in Toronto or Vancouver, but he hangs back, tentative, like he’s afraid someone will recognise him, and Gabe knows it has to hurt, it hurts Gabe just watching him like that. Watching Stephen look tentative is unbearable, and knowing it’s his fault is worse.

“Can I get a kiss goodbye?” Gabe asks, not seriously, fully expecting the eye roll as Stephen gets out of the car.

“You don’t appreciate me anymore,” Gabe calls out as Stephen shuts the door behind him. Stephen responds, expressively, with a middle finger, and Gabe laughs and makes a kissy face right back.


	99. Joe; not paid for this

_going to nyc!_

_Let me guess. You’re seeing Chapman?_

_im there for media_

_but yes :)_

_Laaaaaame_

_ur lame. Hes bringing a freind does that mean something??_

_I can’t even begin to guess what goes on in that dudes weird head._

_Wait. He has friends?_

_rude_

_ok im texting u from bathroom_

_Too much info dude._

_no im at the bar._

_I’m not giving you a psych up speech cap_

_he brot a penguin_

_Please mean that literally. Please Jake. It would make my life._

_oviously i dont_

_their training togeter_

_but volkov isnt good at hockey so whys david training wit him_

_Hahahaha you’re freaking out right now aren’t you_

_Learn to share, Jacob_

_fuck u joseph_

_Literally not even the name on my birth certificate, good chirp bro_

There’s a break in texting, probably because Jake realised that he disappeared to the bathroom for a suspiciously long time, and Joe even gets halfway through dinner before his phone’s blowing up again.

“No tech at the table,” Graham says, in a snotty imitation of dad.

“Bite me,” Joe says, and sighs when he reads  _omg I think their fucking_

_Chapman’s milkshake brings all the boys to the rink?_

_fuck off im not kidding_

Joe groans and knocks his head against the back of his chair.

Graham raises an eyebrow at him, as does his girlfriend. It’s freaky symmetry.

“It’s pretty weird you’re basically dating yourself,” Joe says.

“Ouch,” Gemma says, and Graham gives her a tragic look.

_joe im freaking out here_

_I barely even know the guy and I can still fucking guarantee you’re being an idiot here,_  Joe sends back, then gives his phone to Jenn.

“Don’t let me answer this for a bit,” Joe says. “It’s summer, I’m off.”

“Jake?” she asks.

“And his feelings,” Joe agrees. “So many feelings.”

“Poor baby,” she says, a little mocking.

“I like you,” Graham says. “You can stay.”

“I’m feeling unfairly teamed up on,” Joe says. “You’re all univited, go back to Cold Lake.”

“Even me?” Jenn asks, mouth tipped up.

“No,” Joe admits. “And you’re okay too, Gemma. Fuck off, Graham.”

Graham cheerfully gives him the finger.

“It’s buzzing again,” Jenn says.

“Of course it is,” Joe says. “Of course it fucking is.”


	100. Gabe/Stephen; high times

Stephen, when high, is basically the biggest dope in the world. It’s not something they did too often, even as teenagers, which is, for the record, the last time Gabe smoked up at all. 

He’s sure plenty other players do, especially during the offseason, but if Gabe’s going to get intoxicated, he’s going to go for booze every time. He prefers it, and it has the added bonus of not making him cough his lungs out, because according to Stephen, and Jake, and like literally everyone Gabe’s ever smoked up with, he’s ‘sad’, or ‘lame’, or ‘how are you even a hockey player with that lung capacity?’ Gabe’s lungs are just fine, thanks, they just prefer not having smoke in them.

It’s been long enough, in fact, that when he gets home, and Stephen calls him to the couch with a ‘c’mere’, and then promptly wraps himself around Gabe like a too-skinny (still too-skinny, Gabe’s mom would tell him to feed him up and she’d be right) blanket, Gabe doesn’t think anything of it. He’s been gone a week, Stephen tends to get touchier when he gets home from awhile away, they both do.

It’s when Stephen starts humming, off-key, running his fingers through Gabe’s hair, and Gabe keys in on the fact that they are currently apparently watching cartoons, which hasn’t really been a thing for them since they were kids, that Gabe figures it out.

“You’re high,” he accuses.

Stephen grins at him, a little sleepy eyed.

“Running with a bad crowd, Petersen,” Gabe says.

“Yeah, all those commerce nogoodniks,” Stephen says.

“Nogoodniks,” Gabe repeats disbelievingly.

Stephen giggles. Actually giggles, the kind that Gabe usually only gets from him during tickle fights and whenever he lands a particularly deadly pun, if Stephen can’t help but laugh before he rolls his eyes.

Gabe rolls his eyes, runs a hand through Stephen’s hair, then continues to when Stephen leans into it.

“You’re like a cat,” Gabe comments.

“Don’t like cats,” Stephen mumbles.

“Can’t take the competition,” Gabe says. “I see how it is.”

Stephen hums, bumping his head against Gabe’s fingers when he pauses in petting his hair. Definitely a cat. Gabe’s not usually a cat person, but he guesses Stephen’s his exception.

“Guess you’re a BC boy now,” Gabe says.

“Toronto boy,” Stephen says through a yawn. “Pot’s better here though. Vaporizer wouldn’t hurt your baby lungs.”

“I don’t have baby lungs,” Gabe says, and then, “what would your mother say if she heard you peer pressuring me?”

“Like my mom never smoked pot,” Stephen says, which, fair. Gabe bet Anouk and Johan were totally potheads.

“My mom then,” Gabe says.

“Like your mom never smoked pot,” Stephen says.

“Take that back,” Gabe says, poking Stephen’s side, which gets him another giggle and a lazy squirm away from his fingers.

“Miriam Goldberg, Rebel Pothead,” Stephen says. “I bet you she listened to the Grateful Dead. I bet she wanted to join a kibbutz.”

“Oh yeah, talk Hebrew to me,” Gabe says dryly, and Stephen looks solemnly up at him.

“Shalom,” he says.

“Okay, I don’t actually want you to talk Hebrew to me,” Gabe says.

“Shalom, Gavriel ben Set,” Stephen says, an evil glint in his eye.

“You’re such a loser,” Gabe says, poking him again. “Why the hell do you even remember that?”

“A Bar Mitzvah to remember,” Stephen mumbles. “Didn’t we get high after that too?”

“Rebel teenagers,” Gabe agrees. “What’s your excuse?”

“M’a BC boy now,” Stephen says.

“Guess we both are,” Gabe says, twisting a lock of Stephen’s hair around his fingers, “are cartoons really a required part, though?”

“Yes,” Stephen says, decisively, and makes himself comfortable on Gabe.


	101. Gabe/Jake; first time

Gabe doesn’t even remember how it comes up, which is pretty fitting, really, because Jake always pulls out his super inappropriate stuff (as opposed to his regular inappropriate stuff, which Gabe hears from him  _all the time_ ) when he’s drunk, and they’re both far from sober, picked up two points from the Bulls, and with nothing much else to do in Belleville, celebrate in style with the liberal use of Bugsy’s ID.

There was, Gabe thinks, some kind of dicussion about Degrassi having the first gay kiss Jake ever saw on TV, and then Jake proceeding to give Gabe a fistbump for ‘being where it all happened, dude’.

“Thanks,” Gabe says. “As a Torontonian, I am responsible for Degrassi.”

“Right?” Jake says. “Just seen it though, I mean—”

“Don’t want to hear about your porn watching,” Gabe interrupts hastily. They’ve shared a room for three weeks, that’s not porn watching status. He doesn’t even talk about that shit with Stephen, though that’s a little more — Gabe’s not thinking about that.

Jake just laughs. “Whatever man, you totally want to,” he says.

“If you use the word heteroflexible in a sentence I’m requesting a room change,” Gabe says.

Jake laughs again. “I’m not, dude,” he says. “I mean. I’m pretty sure I’m just straight up bi.”

Gabe blinks twice, makes sure he’s processed that correctly, and then says, “thank you for telling me,” because that takes guts.

“I’m not going to jump you or anything,” Jake says, misinterpreting.

“I’m not worried about it?” Gabe says, and then, because he doesn’t like to think he doesn’t have guts, and Jake looks uncomfortable, “I’ve fooled around with guys before. Well. Guy. Singular guy. If you tell anyone about this I’m going to kill you.”

“I wouldn’t,” Jake says, eyes big, that weird mix where they’re blue one minute, green the next, so Gabe can never get a handle on them. He’s still got some baby fat, but he’s already taller than Gabe, broad, and Gabe can see why there have been signs, usually with way too much glitter, that imply the signholder’s there to proposition Jake rather than to watch hockey. Gabe’s a grade ahead and he still can’t escape the weird celebrity Jake apparently had the second he walked into school, the way some of the girls acted like America was some far distant place rather than, like, somewhere they went to shop on weekends the dollar was good. Gabe’s pretty sure he’s dated at least two girls since he started. Kid works fast.

“Can I guess who?” Jake asks, and then without waiting for Gabe’s response, “I’m gonna guess.”

Gabe rolls his eyes.

“Oh!” Jake says, pointing at him with his beer in hand, sloshing over the can and onto his hand. He pauses to lick his hand clean.

“Gross,” Gabe says.

“You and Petersen,” Jake says. “I bet you two had like — ‘let’s try jerking off together!’”

“You’re ridiculous,” Gabe says, feeling his face get hot.

“Oh shit, I’m right, aren’t I?” Jake crows. “Fuck, Marksy, tap that, son.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Gabe says. “Don’t talk about him like that.”

Jake’s quiet for a second, and then says, “oh fuck, you _like_  him.”

“Yes,” Gabe says. “Generally you like your friends. That’s basically the definition.”

“No, you like him,” Jake says. “You  _like_  him like him.”

“I’m back in elementary school,” Gabe says.

Jake kicks him lightly. “Not hearing you say no, dude,” he says.

“I do think I said shut the fuck up, though,” Gabe says.

Jake’s eyes narrow. “Make me,” he says.

Honestly, the easiest thing at the time just seemed to be shutting him up with his mouth.


	102. Sylvie, Habs; The Duel

Sylvie understands why The Duel is popular. She likes the concept, the idea of teammates going head to head on something neither of them are necessarily good at, something that doesn’t matter, except, because they’re all competitive jerks, it becomes a chirpy, masculinity proving contest, even when it’s something as ridiculous as ‘The floor is lava, don’t let the balloon hit the floor’.

“We do this all the time with soccer,” Carmen says. “I got this, babe.”

He throws in a wink, too, and Sylvie can fucking hear her douchebag coworkers snorting.

*

She does understand why they keep doing it. It generally leads to good moments, the fans love it, most of the players are more comfortable doing it than an interview. It is, in short, a goldmine.

Sylvie hates The Duel, and she has her reasons.

*  
5.

“Wow, way to hit a baseball,” Petrov says.

“Hey, not seeing anything better from you,” Carmen says.

“I actually hit something,” Petrov says. “Right?”

Sylvie and the surrounding crew give him that, because a foul ball’s better than a strike out, at least when you’re down two strikes, she supposes. Contact’s better than nothing.

“The fuck you know about baseball, Russia?” Carmen snaps.

“More than anyone from Boston does, obviously,” Petrov snaps back. “How’re the Red Sox? And for the record, I’m a Yankees fan.”

“That’s the least surprising thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” Carmen says. “You only like cheering for a winner? Guess you should have befriended Fourns.”

Petrov genuinely looks like he’s going to punch Carmen.

“Cut like five minutes ago, let’s reconvene never,” Sylvie shouts.

*

4.

“Who decided Lapointe versus Bovard was a good idea?” Sylvie snaps, when the Flags of the World Duel has reached a tie of fifteen apiece. “Whoever you are, don’t answer that, I’m feeling violent.”

“Easy,” Lapointe scoffs. “Albania.”

Sylvie feels for whoever has to edit this into something resembling interesting.

*

3.

“Who put Petrov and Carmen together again?” Sylvie mumbles, but just to herself, since they’re both within yelling earshot. But whoever it is, they’re getting yelled at, it’s only a matter of time. Conflict is for dramatic TV, not The Duel.

Petrov scoffs. “You’re breathing so heavy you’re going to knock it down with your mouth breathing.”

“You’ll probably knock it over with your sausage fingers,” Carmen says. “How many goals is it, so far? None?”

“I’m defence, what’s your excuse?” Petrov says.

“Think we’ll be able to spin this as banter?” Sylvie asks, without much hope. Nobody answers.

*

2.

Lapointe walks in, takes one look at Mayer, and turns on his heel. Sylvie runs out after him.

“I am not working with him,” he says.

“You’re on a team, Lapointe,” she says. “Sacrifices and all that bullshit.”

She thinks he might crack a smile, but it’s hard to tell, because he’s walking so fast she has to jog to keep even close.

“Get me someone else,” he says, and she stops, blows out a frustrated breath, tries to think about who’d be available on a rare Sunday off. It’s a short list.

The Sens were in town last night, though. “Your husband in town?” she asks.

Lapointe stops for the first time, looks at her, the beginning of a smirk on his face, like he knows what she’s about to suggest.

“Think he could beat you at Hungry Hungry Hippos?” Sylvie asks, and hopes like hell she won’t get in trouble for this.

*

1.

Whoever chose putting and decided the goalies, of all fucking things, should be opponents, is getting nothing from Sylvie for Christmas.

“What was par?” Vincent asks sheepishly.

“You’re plus ten,” Sylvie says. “You’re both plus ten.”

“Can we just say Fourns won?” Vincent asks.

“No, can we just say Vinny won?” Fournier asks.

“No one wins until the ball is in that hole!” Sylvie says.

They both groan.

*

-1.

“Okay, I’m just going to say this,” Carmen says, after Vincent’s destroyed him in foosball. “Sylvie I don’t actually know your last name, will you go on a date with me?”

There are a lot of loud ‘aww’s, because Sylvie works with assholes.

“You can’t even win foosball, what kind of man are you?” Sylvie asks, grinning.

Now there’s a round of boos. Seriously, assholes.

“In his defence I’m really good at foosball,” Vincent pipes up. “And he’s got a really big crush on you.”

“Shut the fuck up, Vinny,” Carmen hisses.

“Impress me,” Sylvie says, dry. “You better be better at dates than foosball.”

“I resent that, I beat a strong opponent,” Vincent says, and Carmen face washes him.


	103. Mike/Liam; Liam POV

Liam doesn’t think he’s been imagining the looks Mike’s been sending him lately, a little amused, but mostly interested, and after a game they fucking slay, the whole team, but Liam with two assists and even Mike with a goal, the adrenaline rush keeps him keyed up, heart still pounding a little when they reach the bar most of the team hits up.

Mike takes a booth, and usually Liam would follow Ben, some of the other guys, but he sees his opening and takes it, squeezing into the small space beside Mike, the fit so tight they’re pressed together, Mike’s thigh hard muscle against Liam’s, and Mike looks at him and smiles. Yeah, this is going to be Liam’s night.

They order pitchers to go around, and Roge gives Liam a look when he pours himself a pint, but Mike sticks up for him, says, “He’s eighteen, Roge, he’s legal.”

Liam grins at Mike. He wonders if Mike’s been thinking about that. Eighteen’s legal for more than one thing — actually, sixteen is, for that, but eighteen’s an adult.

Ben’s at the next table, and Liam talks to him while Mike talks about the game with Darryl, but the whole time all he can pay attention is to the heat of Mike beside him. There isn’t much room with Perry squeezed in on Mike’s other side, but Liam bets there’s just enough that Mike doesn’t have to be pressed as close as he is, bets he isn’t pressed this tight with Perry.

When Liam finishes his drink he reaches for the pitcher, steadies himself, hand on Mike’s thigh, as he pours himself a refill. Mike’s all tense muscle under him, but he doesn’t take Liam’s hand away, not when he’s pouring, not even right after. When Mike’s hand closes over his under the table Liam wants him to slide it up, along his inseam, press Liam’s hand over where he’s as hard and hot as Liam’s been practically since they sat down. You can’t see anything under the table, and Liam imagines Mike unzipping his pants, shoving Liam’s hand in them, leaking over Liam’s fingers as Liam jerked him off under the table. Mike seems like the kind of guy who could hold a conversation like nothing was happening, keep talking to Roge about whatever even if Liam had a hand around his cock.

Mike takes Liam’s hand off instead, deposits it back on his own knee, and Liam feels a flash of disappointment, but Mike’s neck’s gone red, and Liam bets if he slid his hand up he’d find him hard to the touch. Mike pours himself another as well, takes a long swallow, and Liam watches his throat bob as he swallows, takes a stupid chance, because he’s so turned on he thinks he’d come if Mike looked at him the right way, and puts his hand back on Mike’s leg, higher, fingers brushing the inside of his thigh.

Mike starts coughing, and when he stops he glares at Liam, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at him, pissed, but pissed like he wants to take Liam over his fucking knee, that makes Liam grin back at him, hoping he does.


	104. Riley Lapointes; auteur

At fifty, Marc decides to write a book. Actually, Dan thinks he probably decided long before that, and he doesn’t know much about writing, but he’s pretty sure that the three months between Marc telling him and it going to a publisher means Marc had probably started long before. So more accurately, at fifty, Marc publishes a book.

“I want to read it first,” Dan says, and then, when he sees the look on Marc’s face. “No jokes about reading, Lapointe.”

“I would not,” Marc says, faking offense, because obviously he would.

Dan won’t admit it, but he’s kind of worried about what Marc will include, and Marc, hanging over his shoulder while he reads the first chapter, guesses as much. “Are you scanning for sex scenes?” Marc asks, sounding amused.

“Our kids’ friends are going to read this,” Dan says.

“They know how babies are made,” Marc says dismissively.

“Okay, in our case that’s surrogacy and adoption, so it doesn’t really apply,” Dan says.

“Do not worry,” Marc says. “I did not include things with Ulf.”

Well. Dan wasn’t worried until he said that.

There’s a little bit that embarrasses Dan — he’s never going to be comfortable with the way Marc talks about him, like he’s so much more than he is, but mostly it’s a hockey bio, with a few really lovely parts about Charlie and Leon that hit Dan low, Marc’s fear that he wouldn’t love Charlie, before she was born, the scramble of adopting Leon, since they went from years of waiting to ‘you want this kid? He’s yours, take him or lose him!’

Marc loves the kids, that’s never been in doubt, but the eloquent way he writes about them is more than Dan can handle.

“Dad, are you crying?” Leon asks through the bathroom door.

“No,” Dan says, and wipes his nose.

*

Marc tells the kids not long before he’s publishing. He’s not asking them permission the way he asked Dan, he doesn’t have to, but it’s best to equip them because like Dan said, their peers will be reading it, or their peers’ parents, or whoever. Marc was kind of a big fucking deal in Montreal, still is. There’s no ammunition or anything, at least as far as Dan can tell, but Dan knows teenagers, and knows they can turn anything into ammunition.

“Why would anyone read about you?” Charlie asks. “You’re boring.”

“Charlotte,” Dan snaps, but Marc just smiles at her.

The morning after Marc publishes, Charlie comes out to breakfast blotchy faced and exhausted looking, and Dan is about to ask her if she’s sick when she hugs Marc from behind. Marc shoots Dan a slightly panicked look, one Dan returns, and then turns, hugging her back.

“Are you sick?” he asks.

“No,” Charlie says, muffled in his shoulder. “Thanks for. Thanks.”

Marc shoots Dan an even more terrified look. Dan has a suspicion, now, and isn’t particularly impressed that Charlie stayed up all night on a school night, but he figures he’ll let it slide, just this once. He just gives Marc a thumbs up in return, and Marc’s look is baffled, but after a moment he raises a hand to pet Charlie’s hair.


	105. Joe/Lady Joe

Joe likes her immediately, one of those across the bar, wants to know her deals. He can tell she’s here on vacation. Her arms are still winter pale in April, but her cheeks are pink with a slight burn. She’s alone, which is sometimes a warning sign, but Joe’s found that’s not really the case, here, and he shoots a meaningful look at Jake, hopes he caught it, and then goes to grab a refill. The best location for that is on the stool beside her. Totally coincidental. 

Joe orders, then knocks into her — actually an accident, he’s been told by multiple coaches and his mom that it’s amazing that he’s good on the ice, considering he’s a pretty pathetic klutz when he’s on solid ground — and apologises.

“No worries,” she says, and something about her voice tugs at him.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” Joe asks.

“I’m on vacation,” she says, confirming his hypothesis.

“Oh, where are you from?” Joe asks.

“Lethbridge,” she says, then quickly. “Uh, that’s in Canada.”

“Alberta,” Joe says.

She blinks.

“I’m from Cold Lake,” Joe says.

She wrinkles her nose. “Small town boy.”

“Dude,” Joe says. “You’re from Lethbridge, you totally don’t get any credit either.”

She laughs, the taken aback kind, one that ends in a snort, and cuts off, her looking self-conscious, but Joe thinks it’s charming. And she’s an Alberta girl. The closest thing Joe has to an Alberta girl around here is Fallon, and Fallon is a) a dude, and b) is from fucking British Columbia. He’s ailing, is the point.

“I’m Jenn,” she says.

“Joe,” he responds.

“You on vacation too, Joe from Cold Lake?” Jenn asks.

“Nah,” Joe says. “Lived here since I was twenty.”

“How’d you even end up in Florida?” she asks. “Also, how have you not died of heat stroke? You literally lived in Cold Lake.”

“Hockey,” Joe says. “And, uh. Hydration and sun coverage?”

Jenn laughs. “They have hockey down here?” she asks.

“Uh — ” Joe starts.

“Panthers, or — is there an AHL team around here?” Jenn asks. “Or, like. Is there something lower than AHL?”

“Panthers,” Joe says. “And I’m insulted.”

“Sorry I don’t recognise you, I’m a Flames fan, it’s not like we play you much,” she says, then, “Oh man, your face. You were totally an Oilers fan.”

“I knew you were too good to be true,” Joe says, before his brain to mouth filter can catch up, then flushes, because this, this is exactly why he always strikes out. He wishes proximity would make some of Jake rub off on him, in a not as dirty as that sounded way, because the guy has skills. Wasted skills. Though, Jake probably wouldn’t be neck deep in a conversation about Alberta, but honestly, who knows with that guy, sometimes. Joe bets Jake could school him on facts about Ontario, from his time with the O, and Ottawa specifically, from his sad pining, which is kind of sad for the both of them, really.

Jake shows up like he’s been beckoned, so Joe guesses he did not catch the meaningful look, or he did and he’s just being sulky enough about Chapman he wants to destroy everyone else’s chances at happiness. That doesn’t sound like Jake, but Joe’s disgruntled, so he isn’t being particularly generous. Jake has a tendency to accidentally derail other guys’ attempts at flirting with the humble act (okay, it’s not an act, Joe is definitely disgruntled, sorry for mean thoughts, Captain America) and the whole ‘first overall, Calder winner’ thing, if the girl knows hockey. Also he’s pretty cute. That probably helps.

Cuter than Chapman, Joe thinks loyally, but then also, fuck off, Cap.

“Where’s my drink at?” Jake asks.

“You’re Jake Lourdes,” Jenn says.

Typical. You comfort a man in his time of despair, lend a shoulder to cry on, and what does he do? He shows up when you meet an Alberta girl in fricking Sunrise.

“Get your own drink,” Joe says, and gives Jake speaking eyes.

Jake, to his credit, seems to pick it up, though he does it in the most comically overstated way, goes all big eyed and says, “I will be getting my own drink then,” like he’s lost all social graces from rubbing off against Chapman. Literally.

Joe will buy Jake a drink later to make up for the mean thoughts.

Jenn laughs when Jake walks off. “Did you just do the ‘don’t cockblock me, bro’ thing?” she asks.

“No?” Joe says. “It was more of a ‘you’re a superstar and she had no idea who I was, stop being cute and good at hockey near me’.”

She laughs again. “He’s a little young for me, but thanks for the concern,” she says.

“How long are you in town for?” Joe asks.

“We leave tomorrow morning, actually,” Jenn says. “I’m not used to sharing a room for a week, needed some space, so. Here I am.”

Joe tries to hide his disappointment. He doesn’t think he does a very good job, because she says, “give me your phone.”

Joe helpfully unlocks it first, and Jenn programs her number. “In the exceedingly unlikely case you’re ever anywhere near Lethbridge or something,” she says.

“I train in Calgary during the offseason,” Joe says helpfully. “That’s in a few weeks. I mean, unless there’s a miracle.”

“That’s also two hours away,” she says dryly.

“Yeah, but you have to look at it comparatively,” Joe says. “Think about how many hours it would take to drive from Lethbridge to here.”

“That would be why literally no one ever has driven from Lethbridge to here,” she says.

“Touche,” Joe says, and she grins at him.

“Plenty of people drive from Calgary to Lethbridge, though,” Joe says, and he knows he’s about to say dumb things, but he can’t stop himself, “and you’re really pretty and a hockey fan, even if it’s the Flames, and you laugh at my jokes, which means you clearly have a great sense of humour, so—”

Joe cuts himself off. “I’m babbling,” he says, slightly mortified. “I do that sometimes.”

“You are very lucky it is cute,” Jenn says. “And that it consisted of compliments. I mean, for me, but I think you also slid one to yourself in there—”

Joe clunks his head against the bar. “Kill me,” he says.

“Hey,” she says. “You’re welcome to call. When you’re in Calgary.”

Joe picks his head up. “Yeah?” he asks.

“Yeah,” she says.

“Okay,” Joe says, “Cool.”

That is, of course, when Gallagher comes in and interrupts everything, because Joe’s teammates fucking suck.


	106. Gabe/Stephen; grad

The day of Stephen’s graduation is mid-May, and Gabe spends the months preceding it concerned he’s going to be out of town when it happens, battling through the playoffs. Honestly, it wasn’t even assured he’d be able to go if he was in town. Graduates get two tickets, with the option of getting more, but it’s a first-come first-served system, and Stephen did not come first, apparently.

After they found that out — and Gabe isn’t proud of this — he called UBC with a casual ‘oh hey, it’s 53 for the Vancouver Canucks, can I score a ticket for the grad? I could do some promo for you guys if you want’, which worked, and which Gabe still feels kind of gross about, but hey, ticket.

Stephen hasn’t let him forget it either, was in the room at the time, rolling his eyes and telling Gabe it wasn’t going to work, and subsequently answered every call from Gabe with, “oh hey 53 for the Vancouver Canucks”, until Gabe was ready to strangle him.

Being out of town doesn’t end up being a problem. They’re out in the first round, and Gabe’s still got his sulk on when Johan and Anouk get into town, but it’s a comfort in the shitty post-playoff wallow. Usually that wallow is done at home, the two of them off to Toronto before the smoke clears, but it didn’t make sense to go and then immediately turn around for Stephen’s graduation, so they stuck around. Gabe’s still without his parental unit conciliatory hugs, which bites, but both Johan and Anouk give him some when he picks them up from the airport, Johan’s practically cracking his ribs, which are already not in great shape after a spear from a Flame in Game Six.

“Johan, he’s injured,” Anouk chides.

“It’s cool,” Gabe says. “I don’t need to breathe. It’s overrated.”

“Your head isn’t injured?” Johan asks, and when Gabe confirms that, whacks him upside it.

That’s fair.

Stephen’s graduation is the afternoon after they arrive, but he’s got to be there hours early for his robes and other super secret grad business. Gabe drops him off and then takes Anouk and Johan out for brunch.

“Is it going to be you or Elisabeth next?” Johan asks.

Gabe narrows his eyes. He’s been taking a few distance courses, prodded into it by Stephen since ‘you know this shit as well as I do, at this point’, and there’s a sports management MBA at Athabasca that makes sense to have. He has also been taking those distance courses secretly.

“Did Stephen—” Gabe starts.

“Yes,” Anouk says.

“Do my parents know?” Gabe asks.

They don’t even answer him, just give him matching looks like ‘duh’.

“I hate your son,” Gabe says.

“We know,” Johan says, and pats his hand.

Gabe’s got a seat near the front, crammed between a well-dressed middle aged woman and a teenage girl, and the opening speech is taking forever. Both the women and the girl are on their phones, and Gabe’s considering it, but instead he amuses himself by looking through the crowd and trying to pinpoint Stephen. Usually it’d be easy with that flash of white-blond, but Stephen’s cut his hair, so it’s all tucked under the stupid mortarboard, and it takes Gabe almost all the way through the speech to find him. He’s surprisingly close, and Gabe makes dumb faces at him until the guy beside Stephen nudges him, and then Stephen makes dumb faces back at him until the Ps roll around, so who said you need technology to be entertained?

They get a late lunch after a truly ridiculous number of photos — Stephen with Johan, Stephen with Anouk, Stephen with both of them, Stephen with Gabe, Stephen with everyone that some poor passerby is suckered into taking — and Johan refuses to let Gabe or Stephen pay for it.

“My son graduated today,” he says. “It’s on me.”

“I think I heard something about that,” Stephen says.

“That’s weird,” Gabe says. “I mean, isn’t he an idiot?”

Gabe gets kicked under the table, and he doesn’t even know if it’s by Stephen or one of his parents, but whichever. Also fair.


	107. Leaf/Jay; intro to hockey

Aaron wouldn’t bet money on it or anything, but he’s pretty sure he’s never watched a hockey game, beginning to end, in his entire life. Seattle and Atlanta didn’t have teams to have solidarity with, though he went to his fair share of Seahawks and Falcons games, and hell, even the Hawks, though that required the best poker face in the world to keep from wincing. He’s pretty sure California has at least a couple hockey teams, but he couldn’t name them off the top of his head, and if the TV was on sports growing up, it was baseball or highlights, and if hockey was featured, it was blink and miss it. Now, though, he’s on the Jays, and solidarity’s got to be found with the Raptors and the Leafs, because like hell is he watching Canadian football shit.

So he’s got a bit of nerves, when they get a box to watch the Leafs’ first game the night before the first game of playoffs. Nerves because frankly he doesn’t think this is the best use of their time, but that’s not his call, and nervous because he bets they’re going to be up on the big screen, and he has no idea what he’s watching, here. Maybe he should have caught a game or two when he was shipped up, but in his defense, he caught the Raptors’ postseason, so he got halfway there.

Morales was raised up in Canada, so Aaron catches up with him before they sit down, makes sure he’s sitting near him.

“I have no idea what I’m watching here,” he says.

“Don’t worry about it,” Morales says. “It’s pretty easy to pick up. Blue good, white bad.”

Aaron narrows his eyes at him. “Okay, I’m not dumb enough to not know that,” he says.

“Really?” Morales asks.

Aaron smacks him.

“Hands off the shortstop!” Frank shouts.

“Yessir,” Aaron says, and tucks his arms away, because the only time his manager should be yelling at him is during a game, and he’d really prefer that didn’t happen either.

Morales is laughing at him. Asshole.

It’s not that hard to follow, at least the basics. Goals are goals, and he played soccer as a kid, until he had to devote himself to baseball full time. There’s plenty of whistles he can’t figure out, and times the crowd yells for some reason he can’t figure out either, sometimes happy yelling and sometimes pissed yelling, and Morales explains some of it to him, but fully admits, with a shrug, he hasn’t watched too much of it himself. Kinney, in the corner, is yelling enough that Aaron thinks maybe he should have sat with him, because if he cares enough to get pissed, he’d be more helpful than Morales is being. Who would’ve though the Texan was the guy to go to.

“I’m reporting you to the Canadian authorities,” Aaron says. “For being un-Canadian and shit.”

“Bite me,” Morales says. “I like lacrosse.”

“The fuck, man,” Aaron says, and when there’s a break between periods wanders over to Kinney.

“Kinney, make me a hockey fan in twenty minutes,” Aaron says.

“Only seventeen,” Kinney says, pointing at the clock, which is counting down. “But I can do that, bro.”

He doesn’t, exactly, but he does explain shit pretty well, the basics, and, when shit goes down, what’s going on, why people are yelling, and why the fuck two players are allowed to beat the shit out of one another.

“This is savage,” Aaron says.

“Right? It’s awesome,” Kinney says. “I’m heading down to the room with a couple of the others after, want to come?”

Aaron shrugs, and ends up wandering down after Kinney, Morales (the traitor to his country), and Jimenez. At least three Leafs come up to him and congratulate him by name, which is flattering but kind of embarrassing, since he doesn’t know any of theirs, and they’re not even wearing jerseys anymore, which would help him with a last name, at least.

One last guy comes up to clasp him by the hand, but instead of congratulating him or wishing him luck, just says, “I’m a Red Sox fan.”

“Sucks to be you,” Aaron says, knee jerk, before he can help it, and goes red when the guy laughs. There’s cameras everywhere in this room, he hopes none of them picked that up.

“I guess I’ve got to cheer for you guys,” the guy continues.

“I mean, don’t strain yourself or anything,” Aaron says. “You might be a jinx. You are a Red Sox fan.”

“Fuck off,” the guy says, but he’s laughing again.


	108. Jake, Joe; Reasons Why We Should Get Married, by Jacob Lourdes

Exchanged, along with a series of notes, on two long red-eyes to and from the West Coast utterly silently because if they wake Parey up it’s murder time.

**Excerpts of:**

**Reasons We Should Get Married, by Jacob Matthew Lourdes, as told to ~~Joseph~~**

_seriously Jake, my full name is Joe_  

**Joe Forster**

_and transcribed by JMan, because otherwise this would be even more of a terrible mess. someone please save me. This is a hostage situation. When I took the A I was not expecting this. Why aren’t you making Parey do this?_

Because Pareys terifying duh 

_Yep you already spelled something wrong, give it back, I’m writing this. Why does this have to be handwritten again?_

its more romantic

_Christ. Okay, let’s do this._

**David Benjamin Chapman**

_Did he tell you his middle name or did you find it online like a stalker?_

shut up

**Here are some reasons we should get married:**

_Well, at least the list’s name is accurate._

**1\. You could become a dual citizen.**

_Can’t he already do that if he wants to though? He works in the States. Also he’s like the most Canadian ever. Would he even want it?_

**1\. You could become a dual citizen ~~.~~** **more easily but if you don’t want to that’s okay.**

_Wow, reason one and this is already a disaster._

**7\. You’ll have sisters.**

_I’ve met your sisters, Jake, this is not a good reason._

Shut up my sisters are awesome.

**17\. Weddings are nice.**

_Weddings are nice._

yeah whyd you rite that twice

_God grant me the serenity–_

STOP WRITING PRAYERS WE HAVE TO FINISH

**29\. I’m sure there are tax breaks.**

_Jake my arm’s tired are we done yet_

_dont you need a question mark mr grammer?_

_too tired arm falling off can’t play hockey will die tell my mom I love her_

ok we can take a break tho your a baby

 

**_SIX DAYS LATER:_ **

“Christ Jakey you can’t be serious.”

“Shh Parey’s sleeping.”

_I AM NOT DOING THIS._

please?

_NO. I THINK I GOT CARPAL TUNNEL._

PLEASE?

_FUCK, FINE, YOU OWE ME CAP AMERICA_

**30\. Wedding Registry**

add an exclamation!

_Wedding registries really aren’t exclamation mark worthy._

add one!

**30\. Wedding Registry!**

—

**43\. I can’t embarrass you with a proposal if we are already married.**

_Jake that’s blackmail._

**Proposals I may consider:**

**a) on the ice during a game**

**b) at a Jays game on the Jumbotron**

**c) on the ice at the All-Star Game**

_Okay Jake this is literally you listing things he’d hate to horrify him into marrying you._

No its not

_Jake this is not a good way to start a marriage_

you think hed say yes?

_Not in a million fucking years, right now I’m just doing this for my own blackmail purposes._

Asshole.

_Douche._

give me the list back

_No I’m keeping it and I’m going to show your sisters_

“Give it back!”

“Ow, Jake, what–”

“WHY ARE YOU MAKING NOISE?”

“Sorry Parey.”

“Really sorry Pares.”


	109. Marc/Dan; reporter AU

Dan really hates his agent right now.

“Look,” she had said. “One interview, that’s it. It’s a local paper. You don’t have to talk to the sports outlets, they can quote the article. One and done.”

Dan’s hands are sweaty. He wipes them on his jeans, wonders if he was supposed to wear a suit or something, like for game day, even if it’s just meeting in a coffee shop. Wonders if the girl at the next table is looking at him, recognises him, or if she’s just staring off into the middle distance. Every time someone comes in the door he looks up, tries to peg whether they’re the reporter. He doesn’t know what they look like, but he guesses they’d know what he does, so.

One guy comes through the door, and Dan immediately dismisses him as the interviewer at about the same time he checks him out. Which might be why, when the guy sits down across from him, Dan goes red. Okay, score nothing for stereotypes, Dan, now you get to be embarrassed in front of the hot reporter.

Dan doesn’t really have much of a gaydar — he resents that fact — but he thinks it’s a fair assumption that the guy working for Xtra is gay. Or maybe that’s not a fair assumption. That’s probably discrimination or something by law. Dan doesn’t know.

“Um,” Dan says.

“Marc Lapointe,” the reporter says, offering a hand, which Dan takes.

“Dan Riley,” Dan says. “Which. I assume you know. Sorry.”

Lapointe smiles at him. Dan notices a dimple, then looks down.

“Would you like a coffee?” Lapointe asks.

“A water would be good?” Dan says. “If that’s cool.”

Lapointe returns with a bottle of water for Dan, a coffee for himself. Or not a coffee, exactly. It’s got whipped cream on it. Dan is dimly envious.

Dan opens his water, waits for the first question. His agent let him know what kinds of questions he’d be asked, and even though he tried to practice, he doesn’t really have the answers to any of them. How would he know how to be a role model? All he did was get caught with his tongue down his ex-boyfriend’s throat at a party where he dumbly (drunkenly) assumed was a safe space because it contained Sarah’s people. Sarah’s on the freaking warpath. Dan’s a little afraid if she finds out who leaked the picture she’ll kill them.

He expects some soft ball lobbed to open it up, some “how are you”, or “how’s this week been”, the kind of thing everyone’s been gently throwing his way, like he’s a skittish animal.

Instead, Lapointe says, “I used to play in the QMJHL.”

“Really?” Dan says, taken aback.

“Cataractes,” Lapointe says.

“What happened?” Dan asks.

“Went to university,” Lapointe says with a shrug. “U of T has a Sexual Diversity Studies program, did you know?”

“Yeah,” Dan says. Lapointe looks surprised. “My sister,” Dan says. “She took a couple courses in it.”

“Sarah Riley is your sister?” Lapointe asks.

“Can’t you see the family resemblance?” Dan asks.

“Not even remotely,” Lapointe says.

“That’s fair,” Dan agrees. Certainly if you include personality.

They do, actually, get down to the actual interview part eventually, but Dan scheduled the interview before practice so he’d have an excuse to cut and run if it went on long. He feels almost regretful when he checks his phone and realises he’s running late.

“Give me your phone,” Dan says, and Lapointe raises his eyebrows but hands it over. Dan programs his number in.

“You can call me later,” Dan says. “To finish. So you don’t get in trouble with your boss or something.”

He’s gone red again, which is stupid, because he’s just doing the professional thing, the thing his agent would want him to do.

“Okay,” Lapointe says, smiling this little smile Dan can’t figure out, somehow mocking and not, all at once.

(And then Marc suggests they meet face to face again, and barely gets enough for an article because they keep getting sidetracked and Dan is completely unwilling or unable to answer the questions Marc poses about the wider implications, wider ramifications, stumbles over them, embarrassed, and it drives Marc insane. It drives Sarah insane too, it turns out, when they all get drinks, and Marc and Sarah discuss some small class they shared, Queerly Canadian, and the month they spent on queer Quebec cinema, and the differences between the Quebecois queer media and Ontario’s, the West’s, the Maritimes’, while Dan contendedly accepts it’s over his head and tries not to moon too obviously over this too sharp, too much reporter and utterly fails.)


	110. Jake/David, Joe; bar AU

Joe’s just gotta say, from Jakey’s endless soliloquies, he kind of expected that the first time he met David Chapman would be accompanied by harps or something, because otherwise Joe doesn’t get it. None of Jake’s stories are particularly special — there’s a lot of talk about eyes, and mouths, but he punched Gallagher in the arm so hard he left a bruise when Gally took that mouth talk to its logical end. The actual ‘things that happened’ stories are pretty tame. “Today he smiled at me!” “Today he left me a really good tip, maybe he likes me!!” Etc.

Honestly, Joe probably wouldn’t have noticed him walk in at all, except it’s Tuesday night, and therefore dead except for regulars, and he’s wearing a suit, and suits aren’t exactly common around these parts. This is not a ‘swing by for a drink after schmoozing with the boss’ kind of place. It’s a nice suit too. Joe barely knows more about suits than about hot dude levels — both fall under the umbrella of ‘things that aren’t super relevant to Joe’s day to day existence’ — but that thing looks expensive.

The guy looks at the bar and frowns.

“Who are you?” the guy asks.

“Uh,” Joe says. “I’m Joe?”

“Oh,” the guy says, sounding like that means something to him, which Joe wouldn’t expect. “I thought Jake worked Tuesdays.”

Joe’s a pretty smart dude. He takes one look at the guy’s eyes (blue. not like cerulean, Jacob of the thesaurus, but they are nice eyes), mouth (yeah, it’s a pretty mouth, Joe doesn’t think it hurts his masculinity or straightness or whatever to say so). Ah. 

Joe guesses he owes Jake a retroactive apology. Jake went on and on about how pretty he was, and Joe pointed out Jake was no slump himself (like, Joe wishes he looked like Jake Lourdes, instant ladykiller status), and Jake immediately acted all shocked and appalled that Joe could think Jake was on David level. And like, okay, Jake, sorry buddy, David is prettier than you, you were right. He looks like the kind of guy who used to be a child star playing, like, an adorably tragic kid with tuberculosis. Joe probably shouldn’t repeat that simile to Jake.

But all it takes is the pretty face and the fact that Jake is a gushy mess on Wednesdays to put it together. Joe gives himself a mental pat on the back.

“He’s sick,” Joe says. “And you’re David.”

“Pardon me?” the guy asks.

Joe starts doubting his detective skills. “…right?” he says.

“Yes,” the guy — David! — says, still frowning. “Is he very sick?”

Okay, another mental apology to Jake, because Joe knows that look, and Jake definitely has a shot. Joe will never mention any of these apologies out loud. He might mention the worried face though, because Jake sounded down on the phone, all stuffed up and sad, enough that Joe couldn’t even be mad that he had to cancel a date to take Jake’s shift, at least after she said she’d swing by the bar later and say hi.

“Dying,” Joe says, and then realises this is probably not a dude who understands inflection when his eyes go wide. “He’s fine!” Joe says hastily. “He’s got a cold.”

“Okay,” David says, and then turns on his heel to walk out. Guy only comes to the bar when you’re bartending: definitely into you. Joe knows these things. He is wise as well as smart.

“Should I tell him you asked about him?” Joe calls after him.

David stops. “Please don’t,” he says.

Joe _totally_ will.


	111. David/Jake; Lourdes Family Gossip

One cool thing about the fact that Jake’s on a shitty team is that the hockey season runs out around when finals start, so by the time her and Nat are done, he’s all ready to start their Summer of Lourdes. Allie would like to make it totally clear she’s not happy about Jake being on a shitty team, but hey, you get drafted first, you aren’t going to someone good. He doesn’t seem to mind it either, or at least he likes the heat and the guys on his team, and Allie figures if it starts to chafe, he can leave.

(“He’s going to die on that team,” Nat had said darkly after he won the Calder.

“Wow, okay,” Allie had responded.

“Not die die,” Nat said, rolling her eyes. “But I bet you twenty bucks he’s going to retire there.”

“That twenty will be worthless under inflation,” Allie said. “Deal.”

They shook on it and everything.)

*

Summer of Lourdes is a bit of a broken window — Jake’s done the season before university lets out, everyone but Jake has a job to go to — though Jake has training, he’s not sitting around waiting for them to be done or anything — and for the entire month of July, they’re giving him up to Canada and the wiles of David Chapman.

“Wiles,” Jake says slowly.

Allie and Nat nod.

“Do you think he knows what wiles means?” Nat stage whispers.

“Not even a little bit,” Allie stage whispers back.

“Shut up, Wil-E Coyote,” Jake says, and then frowns, presumably trying and failing to figure out how Chapman fits that mold.

“His name is ironic,” Nat says. “Do you think he knows what ironic means?”

“You guys are jerks,” Jake mutters. “I know what ironic means. There’s that song.”

“That was an ironic example,” Allie says. “Considering nothing in it is ironic. Mostly just inconvenient.”

“You’re making my head hurt,” Jake says with a scowl.

*

Not only do they lose a month of Jake time, but in August he brings Chapman to them. Mom and dad are excited about it, because Jake hasn’t brought anyone home since like — sophomore year, maybe? Dinner with the family’s a bigger deal when you have to travel from Canada to do it. Hell, Allie’s boyfriend lives fifteen minutes away and she still waited nine months before risking the visit. Jake hasn’t dated anyone for nine months in his entire life, unless you count the Chapman thing from the miserable start, which Allie doesn’t, thank you.

“He brought Gabe home,” Allie tells them.

“Friends are different,” mom says, and Allie and Nat share a knowing, scarred ‘we know what went on up in that bedroom’ look. Terrifyingly, dad also has that look in his eye. Dad’s always been pretty perceptive. “Do you think David would eat chicken?”

“I think he’s a hockey player, mom,” Allie says. “Chicken’s a safe bet.”

When Jake and David are hiding in the car before coming in, Allie says, “hey, look, chicken’s still a safe bet.”

“Ha ha,” Nat says in a monotone. “Your pun is so great.”

Allie punches her shoulder.

“Don’t fight,” dad says, without even looking at them.

See? Perceptive.

“Anyone want to go rescue the boys?” mom asks.

Allie puts a finger to her nose before Nat does, but Nat rolls her eyes. “I’m not going,” she says. “Let them come in whenever, mom,” and mom thankfully leaves it, because in hindsight, with the way David’s practically shaking when he comes in the door, Allie thinks he might have bolted and run all the way to the border.


	112. Thomas/Anton; meeting sunshine

Stanton gets a concussion at the most inconvenient time possible. Anton’s not blaming him. The fucker on Houston who ran him and knocked his head into the post is obviously the one to blame. He didn’t even get punished for it, didn’t get a penalty on the play or a suspension after, which was bullshit, especially since Carmen got a one game suspension for boarding the guy later in the game. Typical Carmen move, undisciplined and stupid.

His father had praised Carmen after the game, said goaltenders had to know they’d be protected when it came down to it. Anton protects his goalies every single game, puts his body in front of every puck he can, but Carmen throws a dirty hit and he’s a hero. His father was angrier about the fact Carmen got suspended than that Grossman didn’t. They’re sitting on the edge of contention. They couldn’t afford to be down one man, let alone two.

The Bulldogs have called Vincent up from the Greyhounds. Anton watched a lot of his highlights to see what kind of style he played with. What his weak spots were. What Anton would have to compensate for. Anton’s seen him in training camps before, played in front of him, but drills aren’t the same as games. Vincent’s better with his blocker than glove side. He doesn’t close the five hole fast enough. He’s Anton’s age but he looks maybe sixteen years old.

Anton gets to practice early. His ankle’s been stiff, and he needs to warm up or the trainers will notice. They’re down two men. They can’t be down three.

He expects to be the first one there, but he isn’t. In the corner stall Vincent’s already there. Close up, he looks maybe seventeen instead of sixteen. Still not old enough to be in the AHL. Anton goes to his stall, kicks his shoes off. Rolls his ankle a few times, relieved when he doesn’t hear it click like it was doing last night.

“You’re Anton Petrov,” Vincent says from closer than Anton was expecting. He’s made his way over to Anton’s side of the room.

Anton knows what’s coming next. Vincent’s going to say something about his father. How he grew up watching him. How he saw a Hartford game and realized he wanted to be a goalie. Anton will have to thank him on his father’s behalf. It’s happened with almost every single goaltender Anton’s ever met. The only exception he can think of is one goaltender who seemed offended by his father’s very existence, and treated Anton as an extension of him. Everyone always does. He can’t count how many times he’s been asked why he didn’t want to be a goalie. He hopes Vincent doesn’t ask.

“I’ve watched all the Bulldog games,” Vincent continues. “I think you’re going to be my favorite person in the whole world.”

“What?” Anton says.

“You’re a goalie’s best friend,” Vincent says. “Like, ‘where’s the puck? Oh, bouncing off Petrov’s shin again! Phew.’”

Anton waits for Vincent to turn it back around, ‘guess your dad taught you to protect goalies’ or something like that, but he doesn’t.

“Do you have a lot of bruises?” Vincent asks.

“I mean,” Anton says, frowns over what to say next. He was prepared to talk about his father, not about whether he has bruises. “Yeah? I guess.”

“You are a goalie hero,” Vincent says, very seriously, then, “Like a knight! Could you show me the cool places around here? I’ve never been anywhere this big, I mean, except for tournaments and stuff.”

“There aren’t any,” Anton says.

“I don’t believe you!” Vincent says. “Lunch after practice? You tell me all about Hamilton? Sammy’s told me all this shit about how dangerous it is. It isn’t, right? He’s messing with me?”

Anton doesn’t think Vincent’s taken a breath.

“Sammy’s a guy on the Greyhounds, sorry,” Vincent says. “That probably didn’t make any sense. He’s from Hamilton.”

“Okay,” Anton says. He can’t even remember who Sammy is supposed to be. A Greyhound, Anton guesses.

“I’m Thomas by the way!” Vincent says, eyes widening like he just realized he never introduced himself. “Vincent. Your emergency goalie. Not a random fan who snuck in or anything. I swear.”

Anton can’t help laughing.

“Hi,” Vincent says, and sticks his hand out. “Nice to meet you. I mean, I’m sure I’ve met you, but. Nice to really meet you!”

“Hi,” Anton says, and takes his hand. “Nice to meet you too.”


	113. Thomas/Anton; hand-holding

Thomas introduces the idea with an excuse. “It’s like the buddy system!” he says. “You wouldn’t want to get lost.”

“In your house?” Anton asks sceptically, which is probably fair, but Thomas is starting simple and also is not relishing the thought of a locker room of smug jerks saying they called it or accidentally alerting the Montreal media before he tells his parents. Or Meg. Or Fourns. He thinks they’d band together to kill him, and then they’d revive him just to kill him again if they found out he told Sandro first. He wouldn’t even blame them. So in his house it is.

Thomas wiggles his fingers hopefully.

“Just admit you want to hold my hand,” Anton says.

“I want to hold your hand,” Thomas says, very maturely resisting singing The Beatles at him, because if he does Anton’s going to complain and mock him and then where will they be? Not holding hands. Probably teasing each other, which Thomas doesn’t mind or anything, but he has a mission.

Anton goes a little pink.

“Are you blushing?” Thomas asks, delighted. “Are you blushing because I want to hold your hand?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Anton says.

Thomas kind of thought Anton would be…smooth. Chill. Like the way he is with girls at bars. He doesn’t really know why he thought that. Anton is the opposite of chill about everything he cares about, and Thomas knows he’s pretty high up on the list of things Anton cares about. 

When it comes down to it, Anton has dated one person in his adult life, which is one whole person more than Thomas has, and it wasn’t exactly long term. Neither of them have done anything like this before, and it’s kind of the blind leading the blind, with Thomas as defacto blind leader because Anton seems terrified he’ll do something that crosses Thomas’ boundaries, so right now it’s Thomas’ job to establish and underline what he’s comfortable with. And right now, he wants to hold Anton’s hand. That’s a thing couples do. There is a song about it, obviously. And it’s something Thomas has always been achingly envious of, that sustained contact, implied reassurance.

But still, Thomas didn’t expect Anton to blush.

“You are adorable,” Thomas tells him.

“I’m not,” Anton protests. Then, “you’re adorable,” like it’s a snappy comeback.

“We are adorable,” Thomas agrees.

Anton looks like he wants to argue the point, but isn’t sure how to. He has hemmed himself in. Victory for Vinny.

“You’re not going to leave this alone, are you?” Anton says instead.

He’s smiling as he says it, which is a pretty big Antonian giveaway, but Thomas says, “Unless you want me to leave it alone,” anyway, because the last thing he wants is to make Anton genuinely uncomfortable, rather than just endearingly shy.

Anton holds his hand out.

“Sure?” Thomas says.

Anton wiggles his fingers. Thomas isn’t sure if that’s meant as underlining the yes or just teasing Thomas for finger wiggling in the first place, but either way it is a positive response.

“Okay,” Thomas says. “If you insist.”

“You’re such a shit,” Anton says, but he’s laughing, and when Thomas tentatively presses his palm against Anton’s, Anton is the one who threads their fingers together, squeezes Thomas’ hand.


	114. David/Jake; daemon AU

Jake doesn’t meet David’s daemon until midway through camp. He knows David has one, he even knows what (probably) he is, but he’s kept itself pretty well hidden, shy. There’ve been flashes of color when he scrambles around, blink and you’ll miss him, but it isn’t until Mid-July that he comes out from where he’s hiding and stays there, perching on the back of David’s hand and staring at Jake. Or maybe at Sadie, who has her head on Jake’s thigh.

“What’s their name?” Jake asks when the gecko doesn’t retreat, careful not to speculate. Pretty sure David would be upset. Sometimes David gets upset by things Jake can’t predict, but he can definitely predict this one.

David flinches, a little. “Gecko,” David says.

“I know what species they are,” Jake says. “I’m not that dumb.”

“That’s what he likes to be called,” David says, and Jake notices he’s gone red. “Gecko.”

“But his name —” Jake starts.

“He doesn’t like his name,” David snaps.

“Sorry,” Jake says. “Gecko.”

Gecko’s scrambled up David’s sleeve again, and Sadie’s head follows, almost into David’s space, sniffing curiously. David pulls his arm back, puts distance between them again, and Sadie murmurs apologetically to Jake, because she knows David probably won’t let Jake close that space again tonight for fear she’d touch him. She wants to touch him, wishes she could. Jake knows she does, can’t blame her.

Jake doesn’t see Gecko properly again until a week later. David accidentally fell asleep while he was still over, and Jake…maybe didn’t wake him up. Sadie made disapproving noises at Jake, but if she barked she’d wake David up, and there was no barking. Jake’s onto her. Jake’s tired too, it’s been a long day, and he falls asleep only to be woken by David shifting beside him, is halfway back to sleep before he hears David whisper “Gecko”, and then again, threaded with a bit of panic, “Gecko.”

“He’s here,” Sadie says sleepily, and Jake sits up beside David, looks down to the foot of the bed. It’s dark, but he can still see Gecko curled up on Sadie’s ruff, a darker spot against her pale blonde fur.

“Come here,” David snaps, when Gecko doesn’t move. “We have to go.”

“You don’t have to go,” Jake says. “Just stay here, we’ll drive in together tomorrow.”

“I shouldn’t have fallen asleep,” David says. “You shouldn’t have let me fall asleep. Gecko.”

Gecko uncurls himself slowly, pads up the bed and onto David’s hand.

“You really don’t have to go,” Jake says, and Sadie jumps off the bed, comes up Jake’s side, nosing his hand for comfort. He scratches behind her ears. “At least let me drive.”

“It’s late,” David says. “You should sleep.” He’s out of the room a minute later.

“They left,” Sadie says, sounding sad, presumably when David shuts the door behind him, so quiet and careful Jake couldn’t hear it. And then, perking up, “did you see? He came to me. All by himself.”

“Yeah, bud,” Jake says, and hides a smile in her fur when she clambers up the bed again.


	115. Trio; Baby Gerard, wingman

Gérard likes babysitting Gerard, and he doesn’t get to do it nearly as often as he’d like. This makes sense — as much as Sven likes the idea of date nights, if they’ve been away for the sort of stretch that means Yvette probably needs a break, that also means Sven desperately missed his son and isn’t inclined to spend yet another night away from him. Those are the sort of nights Gérard comes over, makes everyone something to eat, listens to Yvette catch them up on everything that happened when they were gone, the parts she hasn’t mentioned to Sven on the phone, or perhaps has and is repeating for Gérard’s sake. Helps Sven catch her up on the same. They aren’t bad nights by any means, he wouldn’t trade them, but he doesn’t consider babysitting a godfatherly duty or anything, an obligation. 

He looks forward to the days he spends with Gerard. He’d never thought much of babies, one way or the other, but he loves this one. So when Yvette finally, finally admits that the pile of junk car she’s had since before she met Sven is 100% dead, no more resuscitation attempts, just defeat, Gérard immediately offers to take the baby, because if he isn’t fast about it, Sven’s sister and Yvette’s siblings take their nephew from right out under him, which he does not like. Not to mention Sven and Yvette’s parents getting parental dibs. He’s got to say, Sven and Yvette have no shortage on babysitting offers, here.

Maybe because Gerard’s a good baby. A quiet one, which is no surprise considering who his parents are. Curious about everything he sees. Lately he’s been completely fascinated with the fact Gérard’s growing a beard, reaching out to touch it, then pulling back every time his fingers catch on it, making a face at Gérard that is a pretty good prototype disappointed one, Gérard has to say.

“I know it’s prickly, but it looks good,” Gérard tells him.

Gerard gives him a very, very good prototype sceptical look. Perhaps Gérard is making it up and just remembering Yvette’s reaction to the beard, but there are definitely some judgmental looks coming his way from this kid.

“He’s so handsome,” Gérard hears, and turns to see a young woman a few steps away. She’s cute, and Gerard gives her a gummy smile like he understood her. Gerard is a showoff. He’s also a handsome little fellow, though.

“How old is he?” she asks, and a few other follow up baby questions, the final of which presumes fatherhood, which Gérard supposes he understands.

“He’s not mine,” Gérard says. “I’m babysitting.”

“Are you sure?” the woman asks. “He looks just like you.”

“Handsome?” Gérard asks, then says, “I’m pretty sure.”

She pauses, goes red, “I mean. Obviously you’re sure if he’s your kid. I don’t know why I said that. Nephew?”

“Unrelated but equally excellent genes,” Gérard says. “He’s my friend’s son.”

Gérard ends up getting her number. “I told you the beard looks good,” Gérard tells the munchkin on the walk back. “Have faith in your big self.” With Gerard in the stroller, he can’t see if he’s getting another sceptical baby look. 

Sven and Yvette aren’t home when Gérard and Gerard get back. Gérard has a key, obviously, but it’s a beautiful day and Sven and Yvette are both extremely punctual people, so Gérard thinks him and the little guy can enjoy a few more minutes soaking up the sun.

Sure enough, a minute before they’re due, Sven pulls up.

“How went the car hunt?” Gérard asks, and Sven shrugs philosophically, but Yvette sighs, exasperated, which is likely the more accurate answer.

“Do men usually use babies to pick up?” Gérard says. “Because even accidentally it’s pretty successful.”

“You picked someone up?” Yvette asks.

“When you call a baby a handsome baby,” Gérard says, and pauses to inform Gerard again that he is, in fact, a handsome baby, “and then express surprise that the man holding him is not, in fact, his father, because they look so alike —”

“Safe way to couch a compliment,” Sven says, coming over to help Gérard with a stroller strap that isn’t cooperating.

“I’m glad my son is good for something,” Yvette says, a little snappish, and goes inside.

“No go on Gerard as a tiny wingman?” Gérard asks.

Sven shrugs. “Do what you want,” he says evenly, and somehow it sounds even more snappish, to Gérard. Definitely not a good car hunt, then, despite the shrug. “We have groceries in the car,” he says.

“I’ll bring Gerard in,” Gérard offers, and gets Gerard out of his stroller, settles him on his hip.

“No go as tiny wingman,” Gérard murmurs to him. “Sorry.”

Gerard doesn’t look too bothered by it.


	116. Thomas/Anton; girl goalies!

It’s not that the tiny goalie girls are sick of Thomas or anything, but they’re used to him now, and Thomas thinks bringing someone to gently lob shots at them would be a fun thing for them. As busy as Serge is, he’d probably agree, maybe even bring one of his kids to assist, because kids are his weakness, and kids on the ice even more so. Sandro would jump on the chance. 

Thomas doesn’t ask them, though. Bringing the captain in is big guns, but bringing in the guy that multiple girls have shyly admitted to having crushes on? Thomas would be a hero, and he is not above using the fact that the ‘dreamy D-man’ (Leanne likes alliteration, Thomas has quickly learned) is his boyfriend…thing…to his advantage. 

Because Anton is still a little skittish when the b word is mentioned, as has been gleefully used for evil by both Sandro and Meg, Thomas does not use it, but he does pull out the puppy eyes when he asks Anton to go to the workshop with him after practice. Anton is bad at saying no to the puppy eyes. Thomas tries not to take advantage of that too often.

“It’s weird,” Anton says.

“I don’t see why,” Thomas says.

Anton narrows his eyes. “Yes you do,” he says.

“Nope,” Thomas denies.

“It’s weird because I fucked her, Vinny, come on,” Anton says.

Sandro, obviously not minding his own business, gasps audibly from two stalls away. “Vinny, do I need to defend your honour?” he calls out, which, of course, gets everyone looking. “Petrov not treating you right?”

“You did know why it was weird,” Anton mutters, giving Carms the middle finger without looking at him. Everyone goes back to their own shit once Anton basically shrugs Sandro off, on the sliding scale of ‘Petrov and Carmen Feud’. “Stop giving me that innocent look.”

Thomas maybe did. He keeps up the innocent look. “Please,” he tries. “They’d be so excited to see you, and I wouldn’t accuse you of being afraid of little girls for at least two months.”

“I’m not afraid of little girls,” Anton argues, then looks thoughtful. “Six months.”

“Three,” Thomas bargains, and when Anton’s face doesn’t change, “Fine, four, but only if you don’t call the Fournier girls monsters.”

“Does terrors count?” Anton asks.

“Yes,” Thomas says.

“Does—”

“Is whatever you’re about to say mean?” Thomas asks.

“I don’t know about me—” Anton starts.

“Yes,” Thomas says firmly.

Anton blows out an exasperated breath, and Thomas knows he won even before he says “Fine,” longsufferingly. “Four months.”

“Deal,” Thomas says. “Do you have hockey cards on you? To sign for the girls? Or should we stop at your place before we go?”

“What, like I just carry around cards of myself everywhere?” Anton asks.

Thomas waits.

“They’re in my glove box,” Anton mumbles.

“Awesome,” Thomas says. “High five.”

“No,” Anton says.

“High five,” Thomas says, raising his hand. “You have to practice, because in a couple hours you get to high five like a billion little girls.”

Anton groans loudly.

“Don’t leave me hanging,” Thomas says.

Anton grumpily slaps his palm.


	117. Tonya, Anton; not a natural mother

Tonya never really thought she’d be a very good mother. Or, to be exact, at the point she got pregnant, she hadn’t thought of being a mother at all. Why would she? She was in the middle of university, with a scholarship she worked her ass off for. It wasn’t a consideration.

She thinks her parents were probably ashamed. They didn’t say so — her father didn’t say much of anything, her mother talked around it like she talked around embarrassing moments and the members of the family she didn’t like. Her parents were ashamed.

Vladimir married her. She didn’t ask him to — telling him she was pregnant wasn’t meant as a trap, the way she heard some of his teammates say within earshot, apparently confident her English was as bad as Vladimir’s. The first time she spoke to them with perfect, unaccented — well, Brooklyn accented — English, she took pleasure in the way they blanched, seemed to mentally scroll through everything they’d said in her presence like she was deaf and dumb.

She didn’t expect to love Anton the way she did, instantaneous, overwhelming. He was a grumpy baby — it wasn’t colic, she’d been assured, over and over, simply temperament, and she was so frustrated, often in tears, sleep deprived, with Vladimir on the road and Antosha inconsolable no matter what she tried, not hungry, or in need of a change, not content to be put down for any reason, his red screwed up face the saddest thing she’d ever seen.

When Anton left for Juniors he refused to let her kiss him goodbye because there were friends present and it would have embarrassed him, no one in America kisses, mama, they hug. And she was grateful for the hug, because there were other boys his age who would pretend their parents didn’t exist. Not Antosha, possibly because he knew Tonya would kill him if he pulled that shit just to look cool with the other boys. And then he left, trying to look bored, as if he’d done this before, left his family and his country behind, like moving to Canada was no big deal, obviously teenage boys did it all the time.

Perhaps that was true — Vladimir didn’t move to the US until he was an adult, if barely, but it wasn’t possible for him to move to the US to play hockey until he was an adult. He was one of the first. Now almost every team has a Russian player, or at least one from the former USSR, and there’s a Russian boy on the roster of the team Anton’s going to, which dimly comforts Tonya, for no real reason she can figure out. Perhaps because that means he’ll finally speak Russian with someone other than his grandparents — to his father’s frustration, he’s started to refuse to speak anything but English at home, says Vladimir needs to get better at it, a smirk on his face like he’s being clever, the little shit.

Tonya’s suprised when the overwhelming feeling when he leaves is a sort of bereft bewilderment, a longing for the days when he’d start sobbing the moment she put him down, like the entire world was terrible if she wasn’t there. She’d have laughed to hear it at twenty-one — overwhelmed, sleep deprived, constantly exhausted, near tears, a moment away from calling her mother in from New York to help her, and giving in to that urge more than she would have liked. She would have laughed hysterically at the idea of it, because she was on the edge of hysteria all the time.

The house is too big when Antosha leaves. It’s always been to big for the both of them, too big for the three of them — she grew up in an apartment, the space was overwhelming. But without Antosha, as quiet as he was, it echoes.


	118. NSFW: Mike/Liam; temperature play

Mike thinks Liam has a list somewhere, written down, with check marks or lines through kinks he’s thought about, brought up, explored. Mike’s not any sort of blushing fucking daisy, and he’s happy to follow Liam in whatever he’s made up his pretty little head to do, within reason. With all the variation, there are things in common, though — Liam likes it to hurt, but not too much (or maybe he would like that, but Mike isn’t crossing that fucking line, and he thinks Liam’s well aware that Mike is never going to hit him with the kind of strength he’ll hit an opponent, that Mike’s willing to do a lot, but never willing to lose control), he likes it when it is too much, when he’s oversensitive, when he’s not sure he can take it, likes Mike to make him, even if that’s fundamentally put on — Liam says the fucking word, Mike’s going to stop so fast his head will spin, and they both fucking know it, but Liam likes to pretend. They both do, honestly. He’s pissy about his size, a lot of the time, but he’s pretty clearly happy with how much bigger than him Mike is.

Ice is brought up pretty early. Mike doesn’t find anything even remotely sexual about it — he doesn’t like to be cold, and ice to skin probably means he’s hurt, that he’s icing a black eye or swollen knuckles or stuck in the torture chamber of an ice bath. He associates ice, more than anything, with his job, and he loves his fucking job, but he doesn’t want to take it to bed with him, as much as he wouldn’t like to start exchanging blows in bed, though he can’t deny the appeal of Liam’s skin gone rosy pink under open palm smacks, ass hot to the touch when Mike smooths his hands over after. Even if it isn’t exactly his thing in theory, in practice pretty much everything that’s Liam’s thing ends up being Mike’s — the kid’s enthusiasm is contagious, and Mike’s biggest thing is watching Liam fall apart, so the more Liam likes it, the more Mike will. So Liam brings it up, Mike shrugs and agrees.

Liam’s got a thing about his nipples. Or maybe Mike does, because again, Liam getting off on shit, squirming and oversensitive, breathless and unsure if it’s too much, that gets Mike like nothing else. He’s sensitive, but he likes it when Mike’s rough — that’s probably true of everything, but especially in this case. His nipples will go tight at the first brush of Mike’s thumb — hell, at the first hint of cold weather, so Liam’s refusal to wear coats is a special kind of torture when he’s running around undressed, oblivious, nipples hard under his thin shirt, a little bit obscene even in a room where guys are wandering around buck naked.

It’s unsurprising that his nipple pebbles under the first touch of the ice cube, Liam sucking in a quick, surprised breath, even though he knew what was coming. It’s a different kind of noise, deeper, maybe fundamental relief, when Mike chases the burn away, mouth hot on him, maybe painfully so in contrast, Liam barely past the relief before Mike slides the ice down his chest, his belly, the muscles of Liam’s stomach going tight under the touch, like he’s trying to get away, though his cock, rosy pink and plumping up quick, tells a more fundamental truth.

He’s got a sweet, pretty cock, though he’d be annoyed as anything if Mike referred to it that way out loud, so Mike keeps that one quiet. Sensitive as hell too, and Mike’s had some fun with that, edging (unmitigated fucking success, Mike’s not going to lie, if he gets Liam in tears he’s a happy fucking man, and after Liam was drowsy and sweet, nose nudging Mike’s throat, on him like an extra blanket while Mike stroked his back, amused and a little charmed by the way Liam curved back into every touch of Mike’s hand like a greedy, affectionate cat, Mike half convinced that if he stopped, Liam would headbutt him just like a cat would), toying with him when he’s still recovering from orgasm, breath knocked out like he’s taken a blow when Mike gets him hard again before he can even go soft, trying and failing to trap Mike’s hands with his thighs until Mike spreads them wide with his shoulders, Liam unable to keep quiet when Mike gets his mouth around him, whole body shaking.

Now his cock jerks in Mike’s hand when he muscles his way between his thighs again, mouth cold from a cube he’s had tucked in his cheek. Liam’s thighs close tight, either protective reflex or positive reinforcement, Mike doesn’t know or care right now, because Liam’s unquestionably enjoying it, and Mike’s long over the impulse to ask Liam every step of the way, because Liam will let him know, and he seems to like fucking everything. Mike sucks hard, feels the hot weight of Liam warm his mouth. Hitches Liam up with cold hands on his ass, lets Liam fuck up into him, thighs tight as steel. Liam comes bitter against his tongue sooner rather than later (teenager, Michael, a fucking teenager), shivers a little, cold or sensitivity, when Mike drags his mouth over the sticky wet head of his cock, after, turns his head to rub his beard against the soft unmarked skin of his inner thighs.

“Hm,” Liam says thoughtfully after a minute, and Mike kisses the hinge of his knee, goes to lie beside him, almost on top of the damn ice before he remembers to move it.

“Good, or no?” Mike says. Got him off, but most everything does, so it’s not a huge endorsement, honestly. Liam’s come rutting against his fucking thigh (teenager), it isn’t exactly hard to get the kid to come.

“Good,” Liam says through a yawn. “Want me to suck you off?”

“Wouldn’t say no,” Mike says, and then, seeing a gleam in Liam’s eye, “Stay away from the fucking ice, Fitzgerald, I like my dick.”

“You’re no fun,” Liam scowls, but he doesn’t go for the ice either, so that’s a win.


	119. Simon&Seb Paddy's Day

Simon has a very bad feeling. Audrey comes in a few days a week to help him with admin stuff, but she generally has morning classes, so he narrows his eyes suspiciously when she greets him with a cheery wave. His suspicion is confirmed when he walks into his office and is assaulted by green everywhere he looks.

“Audrey,” Simon calls, but she’s apparently realised she’s about to get in trouble, because she’s disappeared. He finds her in the break room, innocently pouring herself a cup of coffee.

“Why is my office green, Audrey?” Simon asks.

“It’s St. Patrick’s Day,” she says.

Simon waits. She doesn’t do well with judgmental silence, and that’s something he’s grown very skilled at in recent years.

“Seb asked me to,” she says.

“Of course Sebastien,” Simon sighs.

She smirks at him.

“You don’t work for Seb, you work for me,” Simon reminds her. 

Audrey rolls her eyes over her coffee.

“Hey,” Simon says. “I can fire you. I can fire you whenever I want.”

He is dimly aware that he’s getting appalled looks from some of the other admins.

“She’s my little sister,” Simon calls out, defensive.

“Like that helps your case,” Audrey says. “Only half,” she calls out to the peanut gallery. “Apparently firing a destitute student is fine if they’re only half family.”

Simon grabs her arm and marches her back to his office.

“Ow,” she says, mildly. “Slow down, lunatic, I’m going to spill my coffee.”

“I need to work,” Simon says. “And you are going to take the decorations down.”

“But I came early for this,” Audrey whines. “I had to wake up at six.”

“That’s Seb’s fault, not mine,” Simon says.

“Just keep them up today,” Audrey says. “I’ll take them down. Don’t be the Grinch that stole St. Patrick’s Day.”

“One,” Simon says. “That is not a thing. And two, the Grinch is green. Do I look like I want green around here?”

She looks him up and down, and then pinches his arm.

“Câlice, Audrey,” Simon says.

“You’re not wearing green,” she says. “Can’t pinch me back,” she says, before he can move. “I am.”

She is, actually, a dark green sweater that looks expensive, was soft under his fingers.

“Sebastien?” Simon asks wearily.

“I’m not giving it back,” Audrey says. “I earned it with my stealthy decorating.”

“Waking up at six doesn’t make you stealthy,” Simon tells her. “Clean it up.”

“This afternoon,” she says. “I have actual work to do.”

He can’t even argue with that, because she does have actual work that he pays her to do. He sighs at her and goes back into his office, which is painfully green, from the shamrocks on the walls, to the streamers hanging from the ceiling, to the basket sitting on his chair, which he hadn’t noticed before. It’s a gift basket full of every Irish beer he can recognise and some he doesn’t, a bottle of whisky, and one of those stupid ‘Kiss Me I’m Irish’ shirts. He can barely pick it up, it’s so heavy, and he glares at it when he finally takes his chair back.

“I’m not Irish,” Simon tells Sebastien when he picks up the phone.

“Everyone’s Irish on St. Patrick’s Day,” Seb says, not missing a beat.

“You’re not Irish either,” Simon says, ignoring him. “This is not a real holiday.”

“That’s pretty rude to the Irish,” Sebastien says.

“I really don’t think they care,” Simon says. “Sebastien, what did I tell you?”

“It’s a holiday,” Sebastien says. “So it doesn’t count as giving you ‘random gifts’.”

Sebastien insisted on hiring Simon the second he got his certification, was his first (and only) client when Simon was basically just working at his kitchen table, reminding himself he couldn’t be judgemental about Seb buying fifty dollar socks considering Seb was technically now a client. Sebastien basically bankrolled him until he got where he is, ie someone with more than one ridiculous sock buying client (well, more than one client, he doubts anyone is as ridiculous as Seb), able to actually pay for an assistant, rent office space, buy insurance. Apparently that’s not enough for Seb, though, that he singlehandedly started things for Simon, because even now, when he’s basically paying Simon’s salary, he insists on sending him stupid, expensive shit, always with the crap excuse of ‘well I saw it and thought of you’, until Simon had to put his foot down on the concept of random gifts. Of course Sebastien found a way around that. There’s never been a loophole he hasn’t exploited.

Simon thinks he might have to look up a list of holidays, know to prepare himself. At this rate when Mother’s Day rolls around Sebastien’s going to buy him something and use that incredible not-logic to brush it off. Crisse, he may end up buying Simon’s stepmother something. He pinches the bridge of his nose.

“And stop involving Audrey,” Simon says.

“She wants to help,” Sebastien argues, which Simon does not doubt. She thinks it’s hilarious, and very much does not mind gifts from Seb. Simon can’t begrudge her that, since she’s working her ass off, doing school full time plus working for him in order to have a bit of money that doesn’t go directly to cost of living, and if Sebastien wants to give her things she likes but can’t afford, then Simon’s not going to tell him not to. It seems meanspirited.

This does not extend to himself, however. “I don’t even drink whisky,” he says.

“Save it for when you come to Quebec in the offseason,” Seb says. “I’ll drink it.”

“Who says I’m coming?” Simon asks, but not with a lot of emphasis. He always goes — his family’s still there, barring Audrey, who followed him to UNB. “Is that your secret plan, buy me whisky so you can drink it yourself?”

“I pride myself on never having secret plans,” Seb says. “You’re the only person who seems to think I do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Simon asks.

“Take your sister out tonight,” Seb says, instead of answering. “She’s already stressing about finals. That girl is too high strung. Buy her a green beer. There’s a prepaid VISA in the gift basket.”

“Sebastien Boucher, I swear—” Simon starts, but Seb’s already hung up on him. Asshole.


	120. Mike/Liam; middle names

Mike made it through about ten minutes of chatter before he commandeered his mother’s kitchen. No one but Amber is anything but a distraction at best and a hazard at worst in their attempts to assist his cooking, so he’s barred them for any reason except getting a drink from the fridge, but of course Liam makes his way back in soon enough. Mike allows it. Liam gets along well with his family, even seems comfortable, but Mike knows making nice with someone else’s family can be exhausting.

What he does not allow, however, is Liam’s unsubtle attempts to filch food from right under Mike’s hands. Mike flicks his ear.

“Ow,” Liam says, raising a hand to rub at it, and pouting sadly enough that Mike almost misses his other hand going back for more. Almost.

“Ow,” Liam repeats, when Mike smacks his hand.

“Michael,” his mother says from the doorway, disapproving.

Mike can’t claim to be particularly surprised that Liam won his mother over pretty much instantly, but it can be really fucking annoying sometimes.

“He’s a thief,” Mike says.

“I’m not a thief,” Liam argues. He’s chewing something.

“Fuck’s sake, Liam,” Mike says, and Liam grins triumphantly at him, which is slightly undermined by whatever the fuck he’s stuffed in his mouth.

“Don’t hit your —” his mom starts, stops when Mike glares at her. “Liam,” she finishes, and then goes to get a drink.

“Yeah,” Liam says, “don’t hit your Liam.”

Mike gives him the finger, and Liam makes a kissy face at him, grins wider when Mike rolls his eyes.

“Behave,” his mom says, before leaving the kitchen.

“Yeah,” Liam says. “Behave, Michael.”

“Yes,” Mike says. “Mike is short for Michael, Liam. Good catch.”

“My mom can’t do that,” Liam says.

“Can’t what?” Mike asks.

“Can’t frown and go ‘Michael’ at me,” Liam says, nailing Mike’s mother’s voice with frankly terrifying accuracy.

“Your name isn’t Michael, so I can see the issue,” Mike says.

“No, I mean she has to pull the middle name out because Liam isn’t long enough,” Liam says. “All LiamDeclanFitzgerald, you know?”

“I have no fucking clue what you just said,” Mike says. “Was that English?”

“Liam Declan,” Liam says. “What’s your middle name? I bet it’s John or something.”

“It’s James,” Mike’s mom breaks in from the hall and Liam jumps. “I know it’s boring.”

“It’s not boring,” Liam says quickly, going red to the tips of his ears. “It’s. Sturdy.”

“Sturdy,” she repeats, smirking.

Liam nods. “Like Mike,” he says, and then goes even redder, looks like he wants to clap a hand over his own mouth. Mike’s mom smirks wider.

“Wait,” Mike says, wanting to get the fuck off that conversational train, “Liam Declan? What are you, a fucking leprechaun?”

“Hey,” Liam says.

“He’s about the size of one,” Mike’s mom says.

“Hey,” Liam says. “Don’t team up on me. You’re mad at him, remember? Michael. Michael James Brouwer.”

“Why’d you have to tell him?” Mike asks. “He’s never going to shut up about it.”

“I am right here,” Liam says indignantly, but it’s put on. He’s still gleeful Mike’s mom gave ammunition. Family loyalty apparently doesn’t mean shit any more.

“Must’ve missed you,” Mike says, “since you’re two feet tall.”

Liam kicks his calf.

“Liam Declan,” Mike’s mother says, and Liam’s spine goes so straight it’s like someone put a rod in it.

“Sorry,” he says, meek.

“Uh huh,” she says, and wanders away again.

“Well,” Mike says, consideringly, and Liam flushes on cue.


	121. Sandro/Sylvie; moving in

Sylvie basically got a too good to be true apartment in her third year of university. Reasonable rent, new appliances, washer/dryer, close to work, a completely non insane roommate that was later replaced by their equally non insane cousin. She loves her apartment. She wouldn’t give it up for anything.

“I’m sorry,” her landlord says. “We’re selling the condo, we need you to be out by the first of April.”

She gives Sylvie more than two months notice, which is great, Sylvie guesses, in the grand scheme of things, but she loves her apartment. She’s _used_ to her apartment. Even if she’s staying over at Sandro’s half the time now, it’s still hers, she needs a space that’s _hers_ , and she knows she was crazy lucky to get that place at all, let alone what she’s paying for it, knows that either she’s downgrading or paying half her salary for the same thing.

“You know,” Sandro tells her that night, “there’s an easy solution.”

“Don’t ask me to move in,” Sylvie says. “We’re not ready, and me moving in because I don’t have a place is a stupid reason to do that.”

“Who said I was going to ask you to move in,” Sandro mutters, but he’s pouting. Sylvie nudges his knee with hers, and Sandro leans into her. “Sorry, babe,” he says.

She shrugs. “C’est la vie,” she starts.

“C’est la guerre,” he finishes with her.

“Your accent’s getting better,” she says.

“Vinny hasn’t given up on me yet,” Sandro says.

“Brave man,” she says, and laughs when he frowns tragically at her.

*

Three days later Sandro’s traded to San Jose, and suddenly the apartment bullshit isn’t even the worst part of her week. He was in Denver when he was told, at the start of a long road trip he won’t be finishing, so he can’t even pack properly, has to go to San Jose with a suitcase that was meant for ten days, not an indefinite stay.

She gets told at work, Bruno taking her aside, so gentle she was afraid she was about to be fired or something. Sandro calls her an hour later, and there must be something off about her voice, because as soon as she says hello, he says, “You know, then.”

“Yeah,” Sylvie says.

Sandro’s quiet for awhile, a silence that would be long for anyone, is possibly the longest he’s ever been quiet when not sleeping.

“Fuck, eh?” he says, finally. “I just got my Canadian citizenship.”

Sylvie laughs, a little shaky.

That night he dictates a list of things he needs from his apartment, since San Jose already did their one trip to Montreal in December. Montreal’s still got theirs, but it’s not until late March, and Sandro, understandably, doesn’t want to buy shit he already owns.

“This is really stupid,” he says, after she’s dutifully written down ‘that mug, you know which one, maybe put it in bubble wrap or something?’

“Yeah,” she says.

“Hey,” he says. “No worries if you can’t find an apartment right away, you can chill there until you do and it isn’t even moving in.”

“Fuck, Sandro,” she manages.

“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry, Sylvs. Shit timing.”

“Shit timing,” she agrees. “Want me to pack your pillow?”

“Kind of a waste of space for shipping, it’d probably cost more than I spent on it,” Sandro says. She waits. “Yeah,” he says. “That’d be good, thanks.”

“Round the clock team service, courtesy of Sylvie,” Sylvie says.

“Not a Hab anymore,” Sandro says, and then, after a minute, like he’s just realised what he said, “Fuck. Fuck, Sylvie.”

“I know,” Sylvie says, carefully writes _that pillow S loves_ , blurry on the page.  


	122. NSFW: badfic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I received multiple requests from Patreoners for expanding some of the Bad!fic prompts, so here are a few excerpts and summaries. This is all NSFW, and includes non-canon pairings such as Marc/Dan/Buchanan, David/Adam, and Liam/…everyone, so some may want to give it a pass. (Look, you give me Sex Fairy!Marc, I am going to write Sex Fairy!Marc)

**Marc is a sex fairy. When he gets the flu and starts sneezing in the locker room after a game his rookie season, there are unintended consequences. Pairing: Entire Leafs roster, Marc/Dan, Dan/Buchanan, Marc/Dan/Buchanan. Tagged: magic, sex pollen, group sex, mpreg, nesting, like literally nesting Marc builds Dan a nest**

Excerpts:

“Why didn’t you disclose this?” Buchanan asks.

“I did not think it would be relevant,” Marc says. He looks miserable, nose red, eyes glassy, and Dan’s never wanted anyone more. “It only happens if you are attracted to someone and I…I did not think it would be relevant.”

He looks over at Dan, then, from under his lashes.

“Fuck,” Buchanan says. Someone tries the door, then, knob turning, and Buchanan braces his shoulder against it. “We get you away from everyone, you think it’ll go away?”

“I think it might be too late for that,” Marc murmurs. The sound works its way through Dan, and Dan wonders why, for a moment, before realising it’s because he’s made it over to Marc without even noticing, has his face tucked in the hot column of Marc’s throat. His lips brush Marc’s skin, and Marc shivers.

“Fuck,” Buchanan says, again, this time from a lot closer.

*

“You couldn’t have disclosed _this_?” Buchanan asks.

“I really did not know,” Marc says, looking miserable again, before he turns his head to throw up again. Dan rubs his back carefully. Marc’s magic or whatever it is isn’t working right now, and his hair’s sticking to his face with sweat, skin pale, washed out, but Dan still wants him.  

“Fucking sex fairy baby,” Buchanan mutters. “I don’t get paid enough for this.”

**Sex fairy!Marc strikes again! This time at the Olympics! Marc’s pining for his husband is causing him to radiate fucking feelings, causing random acts of sex to break out all around the Olympic Village. Pairings: various Olympians, Johnny Weir/Marc, Johnny Weir/everyone, Adam Rousseau/David Chapman, Marc/Dan, past Marc/Dan/Buchanan Tagged: crack, group sex, sex pollen, public sex, get ahold yourself Marc**

“Think on the bright side,” Lapointe says. “At least it did not hit when we were near American team?”

David swallows, throat dry. “I guess,” he says. “Will it—will it go away if we don’t—”

Lapointe grimaces. “Probably not?” he says. “I am sorry, truly.”

“You need to go away, Lapointe,” Rousseau says. His voice is low, hoarse, and it works its way through David. David shivers.

“It will not help—” Lapointe starts.

“You need to go away,” Rousseau repeats, looking at David instead of Lapointe. “Now.”

“Ah,” Lapointe says, after a moment. “I will give you privacy, then.”

“Wait, wh—” David says, but by then the door’s shutting after them and Rousseau’s pressing him against the wall, which hardly feels sturdy enough to hold them up, because David’s legs don’t seem to be holding him up.

**I reckon there would be ‘gang bang’ fics in which Liam was the one everyone had sex with. There would no doubt also be the non-sexual kneeling fics written about him too**

**Summary** : Fitzy almost blew their chance at the Stanley Cup with a stupid penalty, so during the Cup celebration the Red Wings decide he should blow them instead.

**Tags:** Liam Fitzgerald, Jordan Davies, Basically all the Red Wings, except Hartman sorry Hartman, Liam Fitzgerald/everyone, gangbang, unsafe sex, blowjobs, double penetration, spanking, sex tears, felching, like too many things to list this is so filthy, I’m totally embarrassed, this is like 5000 words of pure porn, sorry not sorry

**Summary** : Usually they wouldn’t give a rookie to another rookie, but when Liam gets called up late, they have an alpha shortage on the Oilers and decide Ben is the best one to take him. Ben isn’t so sure, and when Liam refuses to kneel for him, he calls his brother in for help.

**Tags:** Ben Morris/Liam Fitzgerald (non-sexual), Luke Morris/Liam Fitzgerald, Alternate Universe - D/s, Liam Fitzgerald is like the most omega to ever omega amirite?, this is mostly just an excuse for Luke/Liam tho Ben isn’t really a part of the sex, sorry Ben/Liam shippers Ben Morris is too pure, spanking, rimming, fingering, marking, kneeling, discipline.


	123. Various Habs; National Bird

Canada apparently does not have a national bird. Thomas didn’t know that — he kind of figured like…the thing on their dollar? Probably their national bird. The beaver is their national animal, and it’s on a nickel. Loon on the loonie: probably their national bird.

“Wait,” Thomas says, concerned. “Does that mean the beaver isn’t our animal?”

“It is one of them,” Lapointe says. “And the Canadian horse.”

“A horse?” Carms says. “Why the fuck did you pick a horse? Pick a polar bear or something, dude.”

“I did not personally choose the national animals,” Lapointe says. “Shockingly.”

“Well, a horse is fucking stupid,” Carms says.

“Not even the _moose_?” Thomas asks.

“Look, you made Vinny sad,” Carms says. “Way to go, Lapointe.”

Lapointe rolls his eyes. “My point is,” he says. “There is a poll now. To choose our national bird.”

“Loon,” Thomas says. “Obviously.”

“Loon is winning,” Lapointe says. “But second is the snowy owl.”

“Snowy owl is badass,” Grayson says. “Obviously that’s the way to go.”

“Loon is already the bird of Ontario,” Lapointe says. “And it is prevalent in America. The snowy owl is much more indicative of Canada.”

“Wait,” Bovard says. “Are you trying to recruit us to overthrow the loon?”

“It is only winning by 2000 votes,” Lapointe says.

“You are,” Bovard says. “ _Marc_.”

“I like the loon,” Thomas says.

“Ooh,” Sandro says. “Canada goose, man.”

“Canada geese are assholes,” Grayson says. “Who the fuck would vote for them?”

“They are fourth,” Lapointe says.

“How the fuck do you even know this?” Bovard asks. “Why are we _talking_ about this?”

“I’m voting for the Canada goose,” Sandro says, pulling out his phone.

“You cannot vote,” Lapointe says. “You are American.”

“I live in Canada,” Sandro says. “Canada goose all the way.”

“That is cheating,” Lapointe says.

“Voting for the goose,” Sandro says, sing song.

Lapointe snatches his phone away.

“Dude,” Sandro says. “Give me my phone back.”

“You do not get to vote in a Canadian poll,” Lapointe says. “That is undemocratic.”

“Lapointe, give Carmen his phone back,” Bovard says.

“Only if he does not vote,” Lapointe says.

“Carmen,” Bovard says, then sighs loudly. “Promise you won’t vote for the goose. Geese are fucking assholes, Grays is right.”

“Maybe _I’m_ a fucking asshole,” Carms says.

“Maybe?” Lapointe says.

“Guys,” Thomas says.

“Give me my phone back,” Carms says.

“Promise you will not vote,” Lapointe says.

“Are you guys _five_?” Bovard asks.

“I won’t vote for the goose,” Carms says, and Lapointe hands the phone back. “You want the loon, Vinny?”

“Yeah,” Thomas says.

“Kay,” Sandro says. “One vote for the loon, coming up.”

“You said you would not vote,” Lapointe hisses.

“I said I wouldn’t vote for the goose,” Sandro says. “Get your English checked.”

“This is the dumbest conversation I’ve ever heard,” Anton mutters beside Thomas.

“That’s not true,” Thomas says. “You’ve definitely had dumber ones with Carms.”

“Bull,” Anton says, but he doesn’t sound very sure of it.

“You are American,” Lapointe says. “This is a Canadian matter.”

“You want the loon from me too, Vin?” Anton says, and Lapointe whirls on him.

“Yes please,” Thomas says.

“You,” Lapointe says, pointing at Thomas. “American recruiter.”

“I like the loon,” Thomas says. “It’s a nice bird.”

“Traiteur du Canada,” Lapointe says. “Et Quebec.”

“I’m from Ontario,” Thomas says. “And I like the loon.”

Lapointe narrows his eyes at him.

Thomas smiles sunnily back.


	124. Robbie; Game 1

“I’ve never been to the playoffs before,” Georgie says, in that lull between warm ups and the start of the game. They’ve had their fire up speech, which goes the same every time, and now there’s just quiet expectation. Nerves.

Obviously Georgie means in the NHL. Robbie guesses tourneys don’t count, but he doubts Georgie played for shit teams all the way up. You don’t play for shit teams if you play like him. Not that he was so good once he hit the Barons. Cleveland practically gave him to Washington for free — a sixth round pick and a prospect for him and another prospect. Cleveland basically saying ‘fuck, you see if you can make him work, because this isn’t the shit we drafted’. What a waste of a first round pick.

He’s good now, though, back on Robbie’s left, both on the ice and in the room. They put Georgie beside him when they got him, and Robbie wasn’t sure how to ask them not to, so before, during, after every game, there Georgie fucking is.

There’s something kind of comforting about the fact that Georgie played like shit without him, but Robbie did just fine with other partners. Petty as shit, probably, but comforting. Of course, it was a shitload more comforting when Georgie was hundreds of miles away instead of half a foot.

“Here we go, boys,” Captain Q says, when it’s time, stays in the door and hands out fistbumps and ass slaps to the guys going out before him. Gooses half the coaching staff too, so the roster’s giggling like teenage girls when they get on the bench. It’s Kurmazov’s line and the Not Mikes on the ice for the anthem. Robbie thinks him and Georgie will be standing there next year, they keep it up, especially because Mikko’s halfway through his thirties, Michel a pending UFA. They’ve always played off one another like they’ve done that shit their whole lives, and it clicked right back into place when Georgie came to Washington. Doesn’t matter which jersey they’re wearing. Doesn’t matter that off the ice Robbie can’t even look at Georgie without feeling sick, half the time. Doesn’t matter that Robbie doesn’t think he’s ever hated anyone more.

“Holy fuck,” Georgie murmurs, right before puck drop. Sounds kind of like he’s going to be sick.

Robbie gets hit with a wave of fondness so hard it hurts, can’t look at him. 

Those are the worst moments.

“Yeah,” Robbie says. “Holy fuck.”

Kurmazov wins the faceoff. Quincy, on Georgie’s other side, says “here we go, boys,” half under his breath.

“Here we fucking go,” Robbie agrees.


	125. Thomas/Anton; monster sitters

“Are you shaking?” Thomas asks. He tries not to sound amused. He probably fails.

“Obviously not,” Anton says.

“Okay,” Thomas says, peaceably. Then, “do you want me to hold your hand?”

Anton answers by facewashing him, which probably means no.

Chloe answers the door after a minute. She looks harried, which happens, sometimes, when the girls are fresh out of school and full of energy.

“Thomas,” Chloe says, warm, and then, “Anton,” a little less so, but not in the Chloe mode of icy politeness, which Thomas takes as a good sign. She even gives Anton a hug after she hugs Thomas. It’s shorter, but Thomas maybe clung to the hug a little. He hasn’t seen her in months, he’s allowed. She clung too.

“Mrs. Fournier, good to see you,” Anton says.

Chloe eyes Thomas, and he shrugs apologetically.

“Chloe, please,” she says. “I’m not even forty yet, don’t do this to me.”

“Her name isn’t Mrs. Fournier,” Thomas whispers when Chloe retreats to call the girls.

“Obviously,” Anton says.

“But like even by law she isn’t Mrs. Fournier, c’mon Tony, how long have you lived in Quebec?” Thomas says.

Anton elbows him. Thomas is too mature to elbow him back, especially because the girls are clattering down the stairs.

“Uncle Vinny,” is the shout that follows, and Thomas thinks Vanessa’s the missile that hits him first, followed by Olivia, but even with goalie reflexes, it’s a close call. Considering Thomas now has two little girls attached to his legs, he thinks it’s kind of funny that Anton’s the one who looks terrified.

“Hi nerds,” Thomas says in English.

Anton now looks aghast. Thomas loves him so much it’s ridiculous.

“Hi dork,” Vanessa chirps right back, also in English. Ah, Chicago education. Thomas leans down to get an arm around the both of them.

“I missed you,” Thomas murmurs, back to French, and takes their clinging as agreement.

“Already getting the girls,” Fourns says.

“Always,” Thomas says, straightening with a final squeeze to both of them. “Group Fourns hug?” he asks, hopefully, and the girls make room for Michel.

“You can join the loving, Petrov,” Fourns says over Thomas’ head.

“I think it’s family only,” Anton says, and Thomas isn’t really sure why, but the comment makes him feel warm.

The girls don’t protest Chloe leaving more than a little, which Thomas knows is a victory. They’re long past protesting Mich leaving, which makes sense but still makes him a little sad on their behalf. It has to be hard when your father is gone that much. Thomas knows how hard it is on Mich.

“We’re princesses today,” Vanessa tells him.

“We’re princesses today,” Olivia tells Anton in English.

“I thought you said you play dinosaurs,” Anton hisses.

“Sometimes,” Thomas says serenely. “What kind? Are we Disney princesses?”

They both shake their heads.

“Warrior princesses?” Thomas asks.

Vanessa looks thoughtful, but Olivia shakes her head. “Fairy princesses,” Olivia says cautiously, shooting a look over to Vanessa to see if she approves. She seems to. She isn’t protesting, and that’s basically approval from the Loch Ness Monster.

“We’re fairy princesses,” Thomas tells Anton.

Anton, to his credit, tries really hard to hide a grimace. “If you take any pictures of this I’m going home a week early,” Anton murmurs.

“That’s not true,” Thomas says, but he won’t. Babysitting partners are hard to come by, he wouldn’t sabotage that. Even if he bets Anton looks _adorable_ in a tiara.


	126. Joe (Jake/David); why

Joe doesn’t stick around in front of the TV for Free Agent Frenzy, because he’s not up for it, none of his closest friends are, and it’s a beautiful fucking Canada Day, so instead he’s out on the lake with the whole Forster brood. It’s not like he doesn’t care, though. He’s told Jake to text him with any new Panthers guys, figures he’ll give them a call if he knows them at all, welcome them to the team.

“Turn your phone off,” his mom says the third time he checks it.

“It’s work,” Joe says.

“Work,” his dad says. “You’ve been loafing around here for two weeks.”

Joe isn’t _loafing_. He’s training and visiting his adoring family, who should be way more grateful that he didn’t fuck off to Calgary the whole offseason, which was the plan.

“I’m an Assistant Captain,” Joe says with dignity. “My job doesn’t end when the season does.”

“Okay, honey,” his mom says. Joe ignores the placating tone and takes her at her word.

Joe’s trying very hard to pretend he doesn’t see three giggling kids ‘hiding’ in the trees, stretch out his official seeking job, when his phone goes once, then twice more. He finishes up the round, begs off another, taking a bunch of unimpressed nieces and nephews and cousins as his due.

First is a general news alert texted to him by Parey, who is also apparently taking his role seriously. Joe clicks through to the notification that the Panthers picked up Kirill Volkov. It’s a vaguely familiar name, but Joe can’t place it.

Parent’s followed up with _this is going to be a shitshow,_ which Joe stares at, confused, until he remembers Jake on a tear, all “Fucking _Kiro_. That isn’t even his name. Who the fuck would asked to be called _Kiro_?”

“Aw fuck me,” Joe says under his breath, mindful that there might be stray small Forsters about.

He checks his texts with renewed trepidation, has one from Gally that just says _LOL_ , because apparently none of them are able to enjoy Canada Day in peace, and then one from Jake, _u told me 2 let u no abt new guys we got volkov._ Not alarming in itself. He didn’t even do a frowny face or anything, maybe he’s fine. Maybe he’s not even thinking about it because it was like a year ago, and Jake hasn’t been with Chapman, and Volkov’s like, what? Just some guy Chapman knows.

Some guy who wrote Chapman’s speech, the one that lead to a whole new shitshow of Jake Lourdes: Tragic, able to get over anything as long as that something doesn’t start with David and end with Chapman, in which case, he’s fucked.

_yep_ , he responds to Parent, _you’re evil,_ to Gallagher, _cool, he’ll be a good fi_ t, to Jake.

_sure,_ Jake responds. 

Joe groans, because apparently they’re _all_ fucked.


	127. Jake/David; abo 'verse

They’ve never drafted an omega first overall. Alpha is the norm, to the point where a beta gets murmurs. David isn’t holding his breath that he’s the first, but articles say he will be, say he’s too good to be ignored.

Jake Lourdes goes first. David had the better season, has the better stats, has more consistency, but Jake Lourdes is an alpha, so as bitter as David is about it, he can’t exactly say he’s surprised.

“You did great last season,” Lourdes tells him, after the numbers get announced. “Like, weren’t you breaking all those Q records?”

“Well,” David snaps. “I did well.”

“No,” Lourdes says, “You did great, seriously. Better than great.”

David clenches his teeth. Counts to five, as he’s been told, over and over, because he’s too rude to be an omega. Too omega to be a first overall pick, even if he earned it. No matter what, he’s failing.

“Better than you,” David says. The five count didn’t work. He finds it never has.

Lourdes looks stricken. Of course he does. David bets no one says an unkind word to him off the ice, bets he’s been handed everything he’s ever had, and they gave it to him with a smile.

“Be really proud you got first place because of your hormones instead of your play,” David says.

“David,” Lourdes says.

“Who said you could call me that?” David asks. Lourdes doesn’t say anything.

“Enjoy Florida,” David says, and the whole thing would have felt more cathartic if they hadn’t immediately made David takes pictures with Lourdes after, fake smiles plastered on both of their faces.


	128. Thomas/Anton; date night

“I am going on a date tonight,” Thomas says. “My first ever date.”

“I assume you’re talking about Anton,” Megan says. “In which case, buddy, your entire life has been a date.”

“We are going to dinner,” Thomas says. “And a movie. Like a date-date.”

“How many times have you done that exact same thing?” Megan says.

“…A lot,” Thomas says.

“And you’re not going to hold hands or anything,” Megan says.

“We’re in Sudbury,” Thomas says. 

“Oh shit, he’s already doing the meeting the parents stuff?” Megan asks.

“He’s met my parents,” Thomas says.

“Did they grill him?” Megan says.

“No,” Thomas says.

“Is that because you haven’t told them yet?” Megan asks.

“…No,” Thomas says.

“Tommy boy,” Megan says. “You are a terrible liar.”

“I know,” Thomas sighs.

“And your parents are not stupid,” Megan says.

“I know that too,” Thomas says.

“They totally know anyway, don’t they,” Megan says.

“I think they’re pretending not to for Tony’s sake,” Thomas says.

“You Vincents are adorable,” Megan says. 

“That’s true,” Thomas says, and smiles when she laughs.

“So dinner, movie?” she asks. “But ‘boyfriends’?”

“Anton doesn’t—” Thomas starts.

“Of course he doesn’t,” Megan says. “I hope he knows I’m not going to pretend ignorance on his paranoid ass. He knows I know, right?”

“Obviously, Meg,” Thomas says.

“He knows to be scared when I come down next?” Megan asks. “Because he should be.”

“I think Chloe knocked the scared out of him,” Thomas says, but that’s totally a lie. It’s a good thing Thomas’ parents are pretending they don’t know what’s up, because Anton’s been wound so tight Thomas is afraid he might snap. At this point it might be kinder if Thomas’ parents straight up asked him his intentions.

“I always liked Chloe,” Megan says.

“I know,” Thomas says. “Strong women, right?”

“You have good taste,” Megan says. “In women, at least. Enjoy your not-date with your not-boyfriend.”

“I will,” Thomas says sincerely.


	129. Marc/Dan; dedication

This book would not be interesting were it not for the following:

To the Canadiens organization for their unwavering support throughout my career and their continued support after my retirement. To the Leafs organization: we may not have parted on the best of terms, but you were the catalyst for my career and my marriage, and I am thankful to you for that.

I have played with too many good people in a career spanning more than twenty years for me to individually offer my gratitude, but there is not a single player I did not learn from. I am equally grateful for the rosters with whom I suffered the sting of defeat as the rosters who hoisted the Cup with me. But especial thanks to Ulf Larsson, a loyal friend for decades, who only swore at me the seventh time I sent him new edits of my manuscript.

To my family: my parents, my brother Patrice and his lovely wife and children. To Anne, Stephen, and Sarah Riley, who have treated me as family since I was an overwhelmed eighteen year old, and who provided a home when I needed one most.

To Charlie Riley Lapointe and Leon Riley Lapointe, my wonderful, only occasionally insufferable children. You are a joy every day, even the days you are not. I cannot wait to see the incredible adults you will one day become.

And to Dan Riley Lapointe, my husband, the father and favourite of my children, my best friend, and the love of my life. Never mind the book: my life would be far less interesting without you, and far worse. Je t’aime — Pierre


	130. Mike/Liam; Pirate AU

Honestly, ransoming the wealthy is more trouble than it’s worth. There’s keeping them fed, and watered, and away from anyone who might get the wrong idea, the increased risk that having them aboard brings. The snotty, entitled tripe that so often leaves their mouths, to the point where Michael will reconsider the keeping them safe and sound, because they’re grating on his final nerve. After handing off the last noble who made mockery of the very meaning of the word, Michael resolved to cease the ransoming business. There is hardly a shortage of other, less irritating, ways of making coin.

“Is it because he’s fetching?” Tom asks with a sigh.

Michael glowers at him. Fitzgerald is an impudent whelp that waved around his status as the son of some count or another, and it seemed a waste of coin to kill him or leave him to drown. Michael would have done the same with a doddering fool liable to earn them coin.

“Best keep him locked up tight,” Tom says. “Lest others notice what you pretend not to.”

He smirks as he says it. It is a damned good thing Tom is kin, and that there are no others to overhear him.

“You should supervise their meals,” Michael says. Along with Fitzgerald there are two brothers, apparently also of noble stock, though you can barely tell to look at the eldest, who would serve better on Michael’s ship than supervising an estate. A soldier, Michael knows without being told, however, and if the family will not pay for him, the crown might, especially if he is an officer.

“Oh no, brother,” Tom says. “I believe that is your obligation. They are, after all, your charges.”

Michael glowers at him more deeply, reminds himself of the promise he made to their mother, that he would look after his brother. He suspects she would not approve of him throwing her son overboard.

Tom smiles back with the certitude of one who is well aware his mother bought his safety.

“Tell the cook that he is feeding three more,” Michael says.

“Aye, captain,” Tom says, tossing off an ironic salute.

Fitzgerald and the Morris brothers are ensconced in Michael’s cabin — there is not enough room anywhere else, other than the cells below, and Michael would like to present a thin veneer of hospitality — it is a business, not torture. They are mostly unharmed, the elder brother excepted, as he put up enough of a fight that their doctor is having a bastard of a time right now. The damage to him is superficial, however, an eye gone black and some blood on his face, bruises on his knuckles, nothing that requires immediate attention.

He rises immediately once Michael unlocks the door, places himself directly between Michael and his brother, Fitzgerald. “I demand—” he starts.

“You are not in the position to be making demands,” Michael says mildly. “Do you need a doctor?”

Michael recognizes the face of a man about to opt for foolhardy bravery over sense, and places his hand over his pistol, hopes he does not force the issue — his brother and Fitzgerald are youthful enough that they have likely never experienced violence, and it would be a shame to snuff that innocence.

“No,” he says, finally. “Benjamin?”

His brother shakes his head.

“Fitz?” he adds, and Mike raises his eyebrows at the familiarity.

“I’m unharmed,” Fitzgerald says, and pushes past the soldier, takes steps toward Michael. Michael tightens his hand on his holster, and the soldier reaches out like he will attempt to stall him, before he drops his hand.

“Hello,” Fitzgerald says.

Michael blinks.

“This is where you say hello,” Fitzgerald adds. “And tell me your name. And possibly make your demands, but I imagine those will be directed toward our families. So perhaps instead you will advise us that should we attempt no escape, no harm will come to us, on your word as a pirate, or the like. And then I will ask when we are to be fed, as I am ravenous.”

He smiles then, looking entirely unafraid, and, well. Fetching. Damn Tom for putting the word in his head.

“Christ,” the soldier says under his breath, and Michael cannot help but agree. He suspects this will rank as another of one of his foolhardy ideas. He can hear Tom’s laughter already.


	131. Thomas/Anton; bedsharing

If Thomas had to bet on who’d be the clingy person in bed, he would have bet himself. He gets cold easily except on the ice, when he’s focused on the game, because there’s no room for that in his head.

“You’re cold because you’re a twig,” Anton says, when Thomas goes to the thermostat. “Put on a sweater or something, it’s not cold in here.”

It _is_ cold in here, and Thomas is _not_ a twig. Thomas gained a pound last week.

“Congratulations,” Tony says. “Now you’re only twenty nine pounds lighter than me.”

“It’s not a contest,” Thomas huffs. “And you’re taller.”

“Not that much taller,” Anton says. “Are you actually shivering? Okay, fuck, turn the heat up.”

Thomas stops shivering and turns it up.

“You get your way too easy,” Anton sulks when Thomas returns and sticks his cold feet under Anton’s thighs to warm them up. “I want to pick the movie.”

“Okay,” Thomas says agreeably.

“Hey,” Anton says, sometime later. “C’mon, bed time.”

Thomas isn’t sure how he fell asleep in front of a movie with that many explosions, but he’s gifted, he guesses.

Thomas shuffles his way to Anton’s room, steals a pair of Anton’s pyjama bottoms because they’re warm flannel and Thomas is suspicious, because Tony isn’t right behind him. He bets he went to turn the thermostat down before bed. For someone who grew up in a literal mansion, he’s weird about the heat being too high, or the air conditioner too cold.

Thomas is still half asleep, so he’s most of the way back to it when Anton comes in.

“You turned the temperature down, didn’t you,” Thomas accuses him.

“You run hot as hell, I don’t want to wake up sweating, thanks,” Anton says.

“Hmph,” Thomas says, and then scoots over when Anton crawls in, tugs Thomas backwards with a hand to his hip.

“You wouldn’t have to fiddle with it if you didn’t cuddle so much,” Thomas says, then preemptively reaches an arm back to keep Anton from scooting away, which he immediately tries to do.

“I’m not cuddling,” Anton says, sounding offended.

“Okay,” Thomas agrees.

“You’re cuddling,” Anton says.

“That’s true,” Thomas says.

Anton makes a ‘so there’ noise and then slings an arm over Thomas’ side. Thomas allows it, because it’s nice, thinks about letting it go, but.

“Cuddler,” Thomas murmurs, after a minute.

Anton makes a betrayed noise and then pulls back, rolls onto his back. His wrist is still touching Thomas’ back, like he can only go so far to prove that he doesn’t cuddle. Which he does.

Thomas’ back feels cold now, and he almost regrets it, but not quite, especially because Anton makes a grumpy noise but doesn’t move when Thomas rolls over, slings a leg over his hip, presses his nose against the warm skin of Anton’s shoulder.

“How is your nose so cold?” Anton asks. “It’s like 75 degrees in here.”

“I get cold,” Thomas says, though he isn’t cold right now. Except his nose, apparently. He rubs it against Anton’s shoulder until Anton pushes him lightly, then tugs the covers up so they’re up to Thomas’ nose. Thomas hides a smile against Anton’s shoulder.

“Go to sleep, you clingy shit,” Anton says. Considering he’s got a hand, heavy, on Thomas’ knee so Thomas is stuck there, Thomas isn’t really taking it personally.


	132. Luke/Andreas; the first time

Luke doesn’t really have a type. Interested and not unattractive and sporting a dick is more than enough for hook ups, and it’s not like Luke really does anything outside of that. No one bigger than him, though that isn’t really much of a handicap when it comes to finding someone to get off with.

Even though Luke doesn’t have a type, this guy probably still counts as not his type. He’s at a hockey event, so he’s got something to do with something, Luke guesses, whether that’s management or money, because there’s no way Luke’s buying him having experience in the practical side. Dressed well, the kind of well that even Luke can see, and just glancing at him, Luke could tell you he drinks expensive wine and probably listens to classical music. He’s pretty, but Luke bets he’d be a total bore, and probably has a prissy wife and two prissy kids. Luke bets his wife wears pearls.

Obviously that guess doesn’t pan out.

“Fuck,” Luke says, reaches back and only gets the edge of the mattress to grasp, fingers slipping on cotton. He wants to get his hands in Andreas’ hair, mess it up, but he has the feeling that Andreas would be annoyed by that. Luke hasn’t been right about a lot, tonight, especially in relation to Andreas, but he’d stake money on that one. Besides, there’s one night stands and there’s the kind of hook up that takes place in a bathroom, and Luke wouldn’t hesitate in getting his hands in someone’s hair if they’re on their knees in a bathroom stall, but it feels kind of sleazy if you’re doing it on a bed.

He gives himself a point, after, when Andreas fixes his hair in the bathroom mirror before he leaves. He’s got pretty hair, the kind that’s probably hard to maintain. Luke gets a buzz and he’s good to go, and no one’s dragging him down by the hair, couldn’t if they wanted to. Seems easier.

“How the fuck did you get into hockey?” Luke asks, when Andreas sits at the edge of the bed to pull his shoes on. Luke’s tugged his briefs back on, but everything else seems like too much effort, and besides, he doesn’t have to move, it’s his room.

“How did you?” Andreas asks, which doesn’t even remotely count as an answer. Kisses Luke’s knee, hair falling from the loose tuck behind his ear, and straightens it before Luke gives into the temptation to do it himself. He’s out the door before Luke’s managed an answer, but it’s not like Luke’s answer would be interesting, would matter at all.


	133. David/Jake; making brownies

If David knew that getting dessert with dinner the night before would have lead to Jake deciding that they’d spend their off day baking, he would have skipped the brownie. Brownies are indulgent enough when eating out, David doesn’t even know what it counts as when you’re making twenty-four of them.

“We can’t eat that many brownies,” David says, wincing at the recipe Jake’s pulled up on his iPad. When Jake ran out to grab them breakfast, David didn’t expect him to come back with an armful of baking supplies. He sort of thought they’d be doing what they’ve done other off days, which isn’t much of anything: staying in bed far past a reasonable hour, watching dumb shows, limbs tangled together, maybe getting dinner somewhere someone recommended to Jake. They’re not productive days, and David feels ridiculous for resenting the fact that they’re doing something today, so he doesn’t say anything.

Jake shrugs. “I can bring a batch to training camp, no worries. And I think they freeze okay.”

“You think?” David asks.

“I haven’t actually made brownies before,” Jake says. “But I called my dad, so.”

“You called your dad to ask whether you could freeze brownies,” David says. He can’t imagine a more asinine conversation, a worse excuse to call someone, but Jake talks to his parents a lot, so maybe Jake’s father didn’t care.

“Yeah, he says it should be good,” Jake says. “I bet frozen brownies go great in ice cream.”

“If you’ve never even made brownies before, why are we making them?” David asks. Jake’s actually pretty decent in the kitchen, more than David would have expected, but David’s been told that baking’s different. More precise. Jake isn’t a particularly precise sort of person.

“You like them,” Jake says.

“They’re a treat, not an all the time thing,” David says, frowning.

“It’s the offseason, live a little,” Jake says, leans over and presses a kiss against David’s jaw, pulling away before David can react. “You going to stick around, help out?”

“Someone needs to make sure you actually follow the instructions,” David says.

“Fair enough,” Jake says. He bought some cheap measuring cups along with the ingredients, and laughs when David frowns at his measuring.

“You want to do it?” Jake asks.

“I mean, if you insist on making brownies,” David says.

“Better do it right?” Jake asks.

“Exactly,” David says, and Jake hands over the measuring cup without complaint.


	134. Thomas/Anton; Vinny et les Canadiennes

Thomas doesn’t get to go skating as much as he’d like. Like, yes, he’s in skates practically half his life, it feels like, but a lot of that is when he’s weighed down in gear, in his blue paint, or sitting on the bench in a baseball cap. There isn’t so much skating to skate, which he loves doing, especially when he doesn’t have teammates around mocking him. Obviously he can’t skate like Lapointe even when he isn’t in his gear, he is an enthusiastic novice compared to his teammates. 

He jumps on the chance when Veronique mentions an outdoor skating date with some of the Canadiennes. They can link arms and be perfectly adequate at skating and awesome at stopping pucks together. He’s met a few of Veronique’s teammates, and liked all of them. They seem to have way fewer assholes than the Canadiens, though Thomas loves those assholes too.

Anton’s prowling around while Thomas gets his scarf on. Every since Thomas dragged him to the tiny girl goalie workshop he’s been less weird about Thomas hanging out with Veronique, especially if that’s in the context of the workshop, but less weird can still be weird.

“You want to come with?” Thomas asks. He’s not sure Veronique would be completely comfortable with it, but he also knows Anton well enough to know what his answer will be, which is:

“No,” Anton says, then reaches out to fix Thomas’ scarf. “How is it you’re friends with like. Everyone.”

“Are you still upset I’m not jealous of someone you hooked up with when we weren’t even together?” Thomas asks.

“When you say it like that I sound stupid,” Anton mutters.

“Well,” Thomas says.

“Shut up,” Anton says, scowling, and Thomas laughs, ruffles his hair before Anton can duck away.

“They’re going to like get a picture of you surrounded by ladies and ask you about being a ladies man,” Anton says.

“I have it on good authority that I am a ladies man,” Thomas says.

“Whatever,” Anton says.

“Want me to get you anyone’s number?” Thomas asks, and Anton shoves his shoulder.

“I already feel weird about that,” Anton says.

“Don’t,” Thomas says, simply, then pokes where Anton’s frowning.

“Face’ll freeze that way, I know,” Anton mutters.

“Yup,” Thomas says, then kisses his temple. “I’m off.”

“Don’t let them turn you into their team mascot,” Anton says. 

“No promises,” Thomas says.


	135. Zach MacDonald/Elias Koskinen; grinder/franchise

They give up three good guys for Koskinen and a probably not worth shit draft pick. Not just good on the ice, though Smitty’s a fucking treasure, but _good_ _guys_. Zach’s never been in a room as depressed as the Avs locker room after that piece of shit trade goes through. Cartwright looks like he’s going to cry, and Zach doesn’t even blame him, considering Kupchenko’s been his roomie since they were rookies. Zach doesn’t think Carts is going to invite Koskinen to stay in Kup’s old room any time soon.

Fans will probably like it — Koskinen’s coming off a hell of a season with the Sharks, fuck, he got two in on Connors last game the Sharks played the Avs, and Connors has been having a shutdown season. They’re probably over the goddamn moon. 

Zach doesn’t like it. Obviously that’s personal — Smitty’s Zach’s favourite drinking partner, bar none, Kup’s finally managing to hold a long-ish conversation in English without Denisovich hovering around to help him, and is like visibly proud of it, almost as proud as Zach is of him. Saunders is — Saunders is a fucking vet, he’s been here since before Zach was, he’s a heart and soul kind of guy. 

But like, even not personally, the deal leaves a bad taste in Zach’s mouth. Koskinen’s just out of his ELC, has a bridge that only tied him to the Sharks — and the Avs now — for this season and the next, so Zach fucking hopes Dempson got some sort of confirmation that they weren’t just buying a season and a bit before trading three players with a combined fifteen years of Avs service. But good fucking riddance, he guesses, loyalty doesn’t mean shit when you’re a GM more likely than not getting fired in the offseason unless you start looking busy. Kudos, Dempson, you looked busy, congratulations.

So maybe Zach isn’t feeling particularly generous when Koskinen steps in the room the next day, looking small and young and not worth three fucking players. It’s not like Koskinen’s going to notice — Zach’s bottom six, he’s probably not even worth attention from Superstar Elias Koskinen. Besides, it’s not his job to do welcome wagon shit, even though he generally has. That’s for the Cap and the As — or, the A, Zach guesses. If they give Koskinen Saunders’ A in some ‘welcome, guy we hope will turn around this sinking ship’, Zach wouldn’t be surprised in the least.

They do. Gaudy little A on Koskinen’s jersey the first time he steps onto the ice, before he’s ever played a fucking game. He probably doesn’t even know the names of most of the guys he’s playing with, but here you go, twenty-two year old whateverthefuck, you’re a leader now! 

He gets two goals that night. Whatever, it’s Edmonton, it doesn’t mean shit, but the media’s gushing like Dempson’s a goddamn genius. Maybe they should wait until they’re not playing a team scraping the bottom of the standings, but what does Zach know? Definitely not as much as management, media, fans, all eating out of Koskinen’s hand before he does a goddamn thing.


	136. Mike & David; pregame

Mike doesn’t think the Oilers have beat the Capitals once in the time he’s been there. Not that they’ve played them much, just the requisite two games a season, but no one’s walking into this game particularly hopeful, because the Capitals, already good before, have been rolling over every fucking team in their way since they added Chapman and Kurmazov to their roster.

The Caps aren’t easy to push around, but they’re not exactly full up with tough guys. They have a couple guys who fight if need be, including their captain, so: respect, but they don’t have any actual muscle, the kind of guy who does what Mike does, so Mike’s probably not going to be looking at a fight tonight unless he goes after one of the superstars, lays a hit over the line. Which again, is basically his job, but he’s not really looking for a fight: he’s sore as shit from one a week ago, mostly his knuckles, some swollen, two on his right split, because Carruthers has a less than optimal right hook but he makes up for it with a face so pointy he can use it as a fucking weapon. They’re mostly fine unless he clenches his fist, but that’s in the fucking definition of a fist fight, so maybe Mike will stay clear, try for hard but clean. Not that he tries to hit dirty: he’s not one of those piece of shit players who thinks injuring some unsuspecting player is a bonus, but he doesn’t pull his checks either.

He notices Chapman eying him warily during warm ups, stretching close to center ice, and Mike may have decided to be good tonight, for a given value of good, but he’d be downright unprofessional not to take advantage of an opportunity to get in the head of an opponent. He skates over, still on his own side of center, but close enough for Chapman to hear him, leaning against the boards. A few of the Capitals have noticed, are looking over, just as wary as Chapman, which is a bonus. Kurmazov’s rolling his eyes. Mike’s always liked that guy. Good captain. Knows exactly what Mike’s doing, he’d warrant.

“You any good at taking hits now?” Mike asks.

Chapman gets off his ass, gives him a look. “Learned from you, didn’t I?” he asks.

“I’m not pulling them for you tonight,” Mike says. “So.”

“If you can catch up to me, you’re welcome to try,” Chapman says. Mike grins. It’s not a great chirp but it sure as shit is better than anything he managed when Mike was on the Isles. Kid’s growing up.

“Good luck, kid,” Mike says.

“You too, Brouwer,” Chapman says. He’s unphased, but there are at least three guys looking over, wondering what Mike said to their precious Chapman, already on edge, so Mike considers it worth the effort.


	137. Joe, Kiro, Panthers; Protect the Chapman

You’d think everyone on the Panthers would low-key know not to insult David Chapman, even if they weren’t cursed with the knowledge of why exactly he’s off-limits in Jake Lourdes’ Locker Room. Hayesy pulled out some run of the mill chirping about him after the Art Ross win, all blah blah, fluke win, blah, good thing he thanked you, Lourdey, at least he can recognise an actually talented hockey player, and Jake overreacted so spectacularly that pretty much everyone in the room was exchanging looks. Mostly confused ones, but Joe and Parey shared a feeling grimace, and Gally snickered to himself until Parey smacked him.

Jake tried to play it off as ‘show some respect’ or whatever, like he’d do the same for any opponent, but it was such a crock of shit that nobody said a thing about Chapman after that.

Young was in the room during that unsubtle fiasco, and he knows exactly how Jake reacts to homophobic shit about anyone, let alone Chapman, so he’s got basically zero excuse except maybe extreme stupidity and the fact that Jake’s halfway across the room and may not catch his comments when he starts on that ‘get him on his knees where he belongs because faggot’ bullshit before a game against the Capitals.

Joe’s never gotten that shit — it sounds about as homoerotic as it does homophobic, but for some reason the guys saying it never clock onto the fact that picturing someone on their knees is pretty gay. Which like — obviously Joe’s not judging, but maybe keep your fantasies to yourself and don’t turn it into an insult toward the one you want to fuck, because that’s pretty shitty.

He’s fully prepared to tell Young to shut the fuck up before Jake hears him, because honestly, he doesn’t want a repeat of that shit, but Volkov beats him to it, with a measured “Shut up,” of his own.

Young looks confused for half a second — he’s really not shaking Joe’s ‘extreme stupidity’ impression, here — before he says, “Oh yeah, you and Chapman are _tight,_ eh?”, pulling out the sneering innuendo.

Jake’s paying attention now, like he heard the word Chapman and his ears pricked up, or like he clocked on to Volkov being mentioned in relation to Chapman and his jealousy meter started tingling.

Joe hates everything in his entire life.

“Next time you talk shit about him,” Volkov says, still quiet, “Perhaps think about why you are spending your time thinking about him on his knees.”

Joe looks over at Jake again, who looks torn between furious and like he wants to go shake Volkov’s hand or something.

“He’s got you there,” Joe says, before Jake can say anything. “You got something to tell us, Blake? We’re an inclusive room, we’d support you.”

“Fuck off,” Young snaps. “Way to make shit gay.”

“That would be you, doing that,” Volkov says.

From the look on Young’s face this is going to escalate to an actual argument and not something that could be dismissed as too aggressive chirping, until Parey, god bless the man, says, “Volkov, you trained with Chapman and Kurmazov — got any insight on weaknesses? I already hated defending against Kurmazov’s line, and now they’ve got good D behind them.”

Volkov’s got an answer straight from the game tape — objectively accurate, objectively something Armand already knows — but by the time he’s finished talking Young’s started sulkily taping his socks and Gally’s successfully drawn Jake into a conversation that makes it impossible for him to glower over at Volkov or Young.

“Thanks,” Joe mouths at Volkov, when he looks over, and Volkov shrugs, smiles.


	138. Sasha Kupchenko & JC Cartwright; skype dates

Sometimes Sasha feels like he spends his entire life in front of his computer, talking to the people he’s left behind. 

First his siblings. His girlfriend, until the distance wore them down to the point they no longer had anything to talk about, the point that when he came home, his first offseason, she felt like a stranger. His parents, who were initially set on phone calls, but slowly came around. He may have miscalculated — his father spoke to him exponentially more when he could confirm he’d reach Sasha rather than his voicemail, his mother always asked to say hello to ‘that nice roommate you have’, to the point that JC would sidle over without being asked if he heard Sasha speaking Russian, would wave and pull out a butchered ‘privet’ if he saw Sasha’s mother.

He’d always associated Skype with home, with the only people — outside Denisovich — he could have a conversation without stumbling, pauses, without worrying. He didn’t worry with JC either, but that was less conversation, more silence of a companionable sort. 

He never thought he’d Skype someone just to not talk, but that’s what he does, three days after he arrives in San Jose. JC’s never skyped much — his family is the phone call sort, and he doesn’t talk to them as much as Sasha talks to his, but he’s online, like maybe he was waiting for Sasha, like he realizes he’s become another person that Sasha’s left behind.

He’s on the couch, contacts out, glasses in, obviously in for the night, looking like — it shouldn’t be possible for more than one place to feel like home, it isn’t fair to have two homes and then leave them both behind.

“How are you?” Sasha asks.

“Shitty,” JC says. “Miss you.” Like it’s an easy thing to say.

“Jason” Sasha says, then stumbles, falters.

“Want to watch a movie?” JC asks, and at Sasha’s nod, “You decide.”

They did this, last summer, when Sasha missed him and couldn’t say it, couldn’t hold onto the thread of companionable silence when keeping in touch, which demanded words. That was never really their strength. It was JC’s idea. They watched at least a movie a week together, during the season, usually two or three. Somehow it was better, watching a movie without talking, without looking at one another, thousands of miles apart, than it was asking about each other’s separate lives.

Sasha picks one they’ve seen before, doesn’t have the energy for something new, and JC would argue if he had a problem, but he just cues it up on his own end. Over the sound of the action, there is no way Sasha can hear the steady inhale exhale of JC’s breathing, but he can see it, if he looks over, he knows he’s there.

“I love this part,” is the first thing said, forty-five minutes after they’ve started, startling Sasha into looking over at the corner of the screen. JC’s turned the overhead light in the living room off at some point, is grainy and dark, glasses reflecting the light of the screen. He’s barely visible, but. Sasha knows he’s there, so.

“Me too,” Sasha says, and they fall quiet again.


	139. Panthers; community service

It’s a good idea in theory. Like, charitable works, literally helping build the community by helping build the playground, good press, good karma, helping kids, the whole shebang. Joe can see why they chose to do it.

It’s just — first off it’s one of those extra hot days he still hasn’t gotten used to, and neither has the pack of Canadians, Northern Europeans, and the Northern US contingent of the Americans, which is all the Americans on the Panthers. They are men of ice and snow and shit. This is the kind of day AC was made for, but here they are, sweating before they even start.

Also, Joe wouldn’t really describe them as handymen. For every Parent –who’s spent the last five years personally renovating his place, painstakingly slow and painstakingly perfect, that project almost as much his baby as his actual kid is, to the point where if the Panthers ever tried to deal him he’d probably stare them down until they changed their minds and apologised – there’s…everyone not Parent, probably. Joe’s seen Jake almost in tears trying to put together the fucking monster that is IKEA furniture, and Joe couldn’t even judge because he was halfway to crying himself.

“I blame you,” Joe says to Larsson as he walks past. That IKEA motherfucker.

“I’m sure I deserve it?” Larsson says, then carries on, somehow looking completely immune to the heat and even handsomer, like the sun has personally come out to shine on him and get all the ladies around swooning in his direction. Joe definitely blames him.

The relative peace of none of them — except Parey — getting any shit of consequence done, all busy sweating and trying to look busy, happy to let the actual construction dudes do the work that…you know…may end in safety hazards, gets broken pretty quick. Captain America’s got this great booming captain’s voice he almost never uses unless someone’s fucked up bad or he’s trying to rally the troops after, well. Someone’s fucked up bad.

“Who gave Gallagher a drill?” Jake shouts, and Joe winces as Gally runs by him, cackling. He considers reaching out to stop his flight, but. Dude’s got a cordless drill. Joe has zero faith that he won’t turn it on.

“Gallagher,” Parent shouts, and Gally stops short. “If you’ve got that, you’re coming to help me,” Parey adds, and Joe can see Gally waffling, considering whether giving up his weapon is worse than being forced to actually do work. With the kind of level of perfectionist Parey is, Joe thinks it’s going to be IKEA tears all over again if he doesn’t relinquish the drill.

While Gally waffles, Joe quickly scopes the scene, stops on Volkov. He looks amused, but then, everyone looks amused. But his amusement has this…chaotic evil to it (whatever, Joe plays old school RPGs, they’re awesome and he regrets nothing). When he catches Joe staring his grin slips to this innocent look.

“You,” Joe says under his breath, and points at Volkov for good measure.

“I don’t want this,” Gally says, shoving the drill at Joe, which he barely catches before Gally’s off again.

Volkov waves.


	140. Petrovs, Thomas; career back-up

Listening to Antosha talk about Thomas, one is given the impression that he’s bound for the Hockey Hall of Fame, or would be were it not for the bungling of management, coaching staff, locker room politics. Vladimir isn’t entirely sure whether it’s something Antosha truly believes, blinded by loyalty, or merely something he desperately would like to believe, will tell anyone who will listen in the hopes that they will believe it too.

Vladimir likes to think he has a fairly good grasp on recognizing talent in hockey players, can recognize it in any position — Antosha himself is bound for the Hall of Fame as long if he maintains that level of play, and Vladimir doesn’t think he’s blinded by the fact it’s his son — but obviously his expertise is in goaltending. Even with all the changes in equipment, style of play, Vladimir still knows the position well enough to know Thomas is a career back up. He also knows his son well enough to never say that in his hearing.

It isn’t an insult, though he knows Antosha would take it that way. Thomas has the temperament for it, unlike some who grow resentful with every game they do not play. He’s fairly consistently mediocre, so the team doesn’t have to worry about resting the starter, and the starter doesn’t have to worry about losing his job when he does rest. There’s a lot to be said for that. Vladimir would have been grateful to have a back up like Thomas, not the least because he’s a good kid without delusions of grandeur, is happy to take whatever advice Vladimir offers.

Vladimir knows Antosha resents the fact he talks to Thomas about his play, but as Tatiana always says: tough shit. Thomas appreciates it, and Vladimir likes to think it makes him a better player. Is selfishly grateful to have at least one thread still connecting him to the game he loves so much. He’s received a few offers for goaltending coach positions, and while it’s flattering, he can’t do that again, the travel, being away from his family. He doesn’t like to indulge himself in regret, but sometimes he wonders what Antosha would be like if Vladimir hadn’t left for Edmonton. It’s a self-indulgent, arrogant thought, but it remains one he can’t shake.

Maybe he’d accept if Montreal offered, purely to see the look on Antosha’s face.

“That’s cruel,” Tatiana had said when Vladimir had mentioned it, but she couldn’t hide the smirk curling in the corner of her mouth. As if Vladimir didn’t know she was worse than him any day of the week.

Witness the fact they are currently in Brooklyn visiting Tatiana’s mother, ever so coincidentally the day the Canadiens are playing the Islanders. Vladimir doesn’t even bother looking surprised when Tatiana whips three tickets to the game out with a flourish, or when she says she spoke to Canadiens head office and there won’t be a problem visiting the locker room after the game. “I told them it was a surprise,” Tatiana says.

“It’ll be a surprise all right,” Vladimir says, dry. The Canadiens are playing the Whalers four days from now which, of course, they have tickets for. He suspects Tatiana planned this purely to keep Antosha on his toes.

The surprise is ruined by some sharp eyed camera person who finds them in the stands, “I knew I shouldn’t have gone for platinum,” Tatiana mutters, when they’re shown on the jumbotron during a lull. Vladimir disagrees, because he’s just close enough to the visitor’s bench to see Antosha see them and then immediately slink down like a like he’s trying to hide. Thomas had gone back to the bench during the commercial break, and when Antosha goes sullen he follows his gaze to the Jumbotron before craning his head to find them in the stands and then immediately waving wildly at them.

“I love that boy,” Maria says.

“We do too,” Tatiana says, waving back at Thomas, and then smacks Vladimir’s arm until he waves as well.


	141. Sandro/Sylvie, Vinny; free vacay

Sylvie is sure she’d like San Jose a lot more if she didn’t associate it with distance. Seeing Sandro daily, but typically through a screen. Finding out the Canadiens were doing their California road trip in November and spending months wondering if it was enormously unprofessional to ask if she could, you know, hitch a ride on the private jet, her accommodations were pretty much guaranteed and she could make her own way back before the Habs got back to Montreal.

It’s getting close to the wire, the kind of close where every time she sees Bruno it’s on the tip of her tongue before she reels it back in, when Bruno calls her into his office.

“You have a week and a half of vacation time left,” he says. “Are you planning to take time off in December?”

“Not really,” Sylvie says. “Isn’t this HR stuff?”

“Usually,” he says, scribbles something down. “Okay, that makes things easier. We’re going to forget I ever did this, because I am a grown man who cannot be bossed around by hockey players.”

“That is not true at all, Bruno,” Sylvie says.

“We are going to pretend I am a grown man who cannot be bossed around by hockey players,” Bruno revises. “And that this isn’t inappropriate.”

“Every day is inappropriate here, sir,” Sylvie says.

“Touche,” Bruno says, then, sighing loudly. “Thomas Vincent would like to know if you would like to go to California the second week of November.”

Sylvie struggles to keep her face even.

“He adds, and I quote,” Bruno says, now reading from his computer, “that you would be his ‘very special guest’, that he is ‘happy to kick Tony out of his seat and make him sit with Denisovich’, and that he can arrange for a flight back to Montreal. But he wanted to make sure it was okay with me first.”

“And it is?” Sylvie asks.

“I wouldn’t be talking to you about it if it wasn’t,” Bruno says, then, “Don’t hug me please.”

“Wasn’t even considering it,” Sylvie says. “What about Thomas?”

“Considering Carmen, I doubt hugging Vincent can do any more damage,” Bruno says. “You’re there as a guest, it’s coming out of your vacation time.”

“Understood,” Sylvie says.

“Get out of my office and call your boyfriend,” Bruno says. “I’m pretending this never happened. Please do the same.”

“Absolutely, sir,” Sylvie says, and manages to get three steps out of Bruno’s office before she starts laughing.

Sandro picks up the phone while she’s still laughing, whining, “It’s seven-thirty, Sylvs,” and then, alarmed, “are you having a nervous breakdown?”

“Did you have something to do with this?” Sylvie asks, once she’s managed to catch her breath.

Sandro apparently did not, and he’s a terrible liar, so apparently this was all Vinny.

“That little shit, getting arrogant and bossing poor front office around,” Sandro says. “What a diva.”

Sylvie doesn’t even need to see him to know how wide he’s grinning.

“This is his payback for me laughing when the Expos got knocked out, I guess,” Sandro says.

“Flying your girlfriend out to see you?” Sylvie asks.

“Yeah,” Sandro says. “Trying to make me feel guilty by being fucking great.”

“That does sound like him,” Sylvie says.

“Right?” Sandro says. “Motherfucker, I’m still not sorry the Expos got knocked out.”

Sylvie waits.

“Don’t tell him I said that,” Sandro says.

“But then he might send me on another trip,” Sylvie says.

“Point,” Sandro says, then, “wait until All-Star break to tell him. We have to milk his kindness for all it’s worth.”

“Or you could fly me out,” Sylvie says.

“Or I could fly you out!” Sandro says. “This is why you’re the smart one.”

Sylvie waits.

“One of the many reasons you’re the smart one,” Sandro says. “Give Vinny a kiss from me.”

“I’m going to get fired for sexual harassment at this rate,” Sylvie says, but she figures she can throw in a couple kisses when she sees him next.


	142. Thomas, Anton, Vladimir; substitute coach

Of all the things Thomas expected to encounter in mandatory practice the day before a game against the Whalers, he can’t say Vladimir Petrov in the stands is one of them. Especially because it’s a closed one. And they’re in Connecticut.

Of course Vladimir knows where the Whalers practice, and has no problem getting in. He isn’t affiliated with the Whalers, exactly, but he’s done alumni stuff with them before. And he knows when they’re practicing because — well because Thomas told him, but in his defence when Anton gets mad at him later, he didn’t know Vladimir was going to show up, he just thought he wanted to guarantee a time Anton would be free.

“Vlad,” Gagnon shots. “Get your ass down here.”

There is something deeply strange about seeing Gagnon give anyone what could only be called a bro hug over the bench, but it’s extra strange when it’s Thomas’…boyfriend’s…dad.

“Come to watch practice?” Gagnon asks.

“If you don’t mind,” Vladimir says.

“You’re a Whaler, don’t know if I trust you,” Gagnon says.

“Says the Whaler,” Vladimir retorts. Thomas had almost forgotten that they’d played on the Whalers together, shouldn’t have, considering the epic picture of a grumpy looking Anton and a grumpy looking Gagnon over twenty years ago. Some things never change.

“Coach of the Canadiens,” Gagnon says. “Loyalties change.”

“Father of a Canadien,” Vladimir replies.

About to spontaneously combust with embarrassment,Thomas supplies in his head for Anton, who looks like he’d do just about anything to have his dad not be there.

Thomas is kind of glad Sandro isn’t here. Not that he’s glad Sandro isn’t on the team, he misses him all the time, but if Sandro was here he thinks Anton would be punching him eventually, because there’s no way Sandro would ever, ever let his dad showing up to practice go. Thomas is sure there’ll be plenty of chirping from the team in general once everyone stops looking faintly starstruck, but Sandro would have leaned on it the hardest.

“You want to watch, or you want to want to knock our goalies into shape?” Gagnon asks, and Thomas can practically hear Habs TV prick their ears up in excitement.

“I can do both,” Vladimir says, then, “I don’t have skates.”

“Petrov, find your father a pair of skates,” Gagnon says, and Anton fumes but goes back to the locker room.

“You know them?” Gagnon asks, calls Thomas and Connors over to the bench with a crook of his fingers.

“I know Thomas, of course,” Vladimir says, and Thomas resists the urge to wave, because that’s probably not very professional with Vladimir Petrov, their goalie coach for the day. 

“I grew up idolising you,” Connors says quickly. “Your save in Game Six? That won the Cup.”

“Bibeau’s goal won the Cup,” Vladimir says. “But thank you.”

Connors looks embarrassed, and Thomas feels bad for him, because you can only meet your idols once, and there was no way he could have known about Vladimir’s outspoken distaste for crediting or blaming a goaltender for a game. 

“Thomas,” Vladimir says.

“Mr. Petrov,” Thomas says. He’s insisted on Vladimir, but this isn’t meeting up with him and Tonya after a game, or staying with the Petrovs over the summer, so Thomas doesn’t think it’s really appropriate.

Vladimir gives him a look that reminds Thomas of Anton’s unimpressed one, but about ten times more potent. 

“Vladimir,” Thomas corrects himself.

“Come here, son,” Vladimir says, pulling Thomas into a hug over the boards. When Thomas pulls back Connors just looks mad, and Thomas doesn’t feel bad for him at all.


	143. Thomas/Anton; the show off room

There’s a picture in the Petrov house (mansion). There are…actually a whole lot of pictures in the Petrov mansion, there’s kind of a lot of space to fill, but a lot of them are that kind of art that Thomas maybe doesn’t get because it doesn’t really look like anything, some art that does look like things. There’s really only one room with family pictures — beyond the mantle that has two pictures of very serious looking little boys that could be brothers if the pictures weren’t clearly taken decades apart, and one little girl smiling wide around two missing front teeth. There’s chocolate on her face.

Sometimes Tonya’s Thomas’ favourite Petrov. He is never going to be dumb enough to say that out loud.

Vladimir’s got this kind of study…trophy room thing — Anton calls it the show-off room, but Vladimir’s got a lot of cool stuff in there, and who could blame a guy for wanting somewhere to keep his Stanley Cup ring and his HHOF ring and his freaking Olympic medal, and his…there’s a lot of stuff in there, is the point Thomas is making. Anton’s still mad years later because Vladimir let Thomas try on his rings the first time he stayed over. Thomas doesn’t even know if he’s mad at Thomas or his dad. Thomas bets he doesn’t even know. He’s ridiculous. Tonya is often his favourite Petrov when they’re in Hartford, because Anton regresses into a sulky teenager and she has none of it.

 

Thomas’ favourite thing about the room is that it’s in chronological order. Like, yep, that seems like a Petrov-y thing to do, but the best thing is that beside Vladimir’s Cup ring is a participation medal from Anton’s very first house league season, and not long before it, Tonya’s Bachelors’ Degree. Beside the Olympic medal is one of those dinky plastic covered in gold paint trophies, the kind Thomas has a bundle of back at his parents’, sitting on a shelf in his room. Anton calls it the show off room, but Thomas just thinks it feels…proud.

The ring’s locked up, probably because insurance or something, Thomas doesn’t even know how much it’s worth but it’s enough that he got very scared that he would somehow drop it and it’d crack and he’d…can you break diamonds? You probably can’t, but they can fall out and get lost. Thomas held his hand out very carefully when he wore that ring.

Behind it are two pictures Thomas didn’t notice the first time he came in here. He hasn’t been in since, it’s Vladimir’s office as well as his super cool trophy room, and it’s kind of rude to just wander in if you’re not invited, but Anton’s been informed in no uncertain terms that his 300th point puck is going straight into the super cool trophy room, and he’s dragged Thomas in with him.

Thomas wanders around while Anton grumps about his mom and dad taking ownership of his stuff or whatever — like he’s going to be putting it in a point of pride in his place otherwise, he’s not particularly big on that kind of thing. He rubs his thumb over where the glass has smudged over the Stanley Cup ring, sees two pictures, one of Vladimir and Tonya and Anton all looking very serious and oh also there’s this Stanley Cup there, maybe they didn’t notice? But then one of Anton, hair white blond and eyebrows doing that frowning thing they still do, wrapping his tiny five year old arms around the Stanley Cup. He can’t reach around it. Even at five, Thomas can read Anton’s face, and his expression very clearly says ‘This is my Cup.’

Thomas thinks he’s going to die, he’s so overwhelmed by how cute it is.

“I hate that picture,” Anton says, when he comes over to see what Thomas is looking at.

Tonya agrees, later, to make Thomas a copy before they leave. 

Tonya is definitely Thomas’ favourite Petrov.


	144. Dan, Leon: first crushes

Dan’s always had a harder time figuring out how Leon feels than, say, Marc or Charlie. Partly that’s because Marc and Charlie aren’t exactly shy about saying — pretty much anything, and at length, so either they tell Dan what’s up or he knows something’s up because they’re not talking. Leon’s always been shy — he was a shy baby, even, always tucking his face into Dan’s neck when he was meeting someone new, reluctant to do anything that would involve interacting with strangers. That’s still the case, to an extent, but it’s not like it was when he was three and quietly inconsolable because Dan was abandoning him to daycare every morning. Which is good, because Dan still doesn’t think he’s over the heartbreak of that, his sad dark eyes and the way he reached his arms out like if he held them out long enough Dan would pick him up and carry him back home.

Dan is almost used to the fact that parenthood is frequently doing things that are good for your kids but make you feel like a failure as a parent at the time. He’s never going to like it much, but it’s what he signed up for.

Minus extreme cases like Dan’s betrayal in sending him to daycare then kindergarten — by grade one he liked school and Dan stopped feeling like a monster every morning, which was good — Dan tends to have a hard time knowing what’s going on in his head. Part of that’s the way they’re both hesitant in the other’s language, that if Leon’s expressing himself in English it’s clumsy, that if he’s expressing himself in French, Dan’s not necessarily going to get the nuance. Marc can translate, of course, and Dan hates the way he’s jealous of that, of the fact that Marc understands Leon perfectly without trying, at least when it comes to what he’s saying. It’s not like he says too much, mostly observes, probably doesn’t miss a thing.

Dan may not be the best at reading his son, but he’s not too old to remember twelve. Leon’s had quiet rapport with Jaya from the start of her and Charlie’s friendship. Jaya’s always very nice to Leon to Charlie’s obvious dismay, asks how he’s doing, helps him with homework sometimes, treats him like her own little brother…but definitely nicer than Sarah treated Dan or Marc still treats Patrice or Charlie treats Leon…so maybe like a favourite cousin? A little buddy? For years now, Jaya at the dinner table hasn’t made him clam up like anyone else would, even Seth sometimes. It actually brings him out more, probably because of the security she provides: Charlie’s never as sharp as she can be when Jaya’s there. He’s gone practically mute, now, keeps his head down at the table, mumbles if Jaya asks him a question, looks like he wants to tuck his face right back into Dan’s neck with the knowledge that if he can’t see them, they can’t see him.

Yeah, Dan knows twelve. Twelve sucks. Crushes already feel like the end of the world, and that’s the normal ones, he’s sure, not the ones three years older than you and your sister’s best friend, or the ones the same gender as you. Dan wonders if it makes him a really bad gay man to be thankful that Leon doesn’t have to go through that fresh hell of confusion about his sexuality, then decides it’s probably best not to mention that feeling to Marc, just in case. Marc would probably tell him he’s being premature in assuming that, anyway, and Marc would probably be right. It’s best not to give Marc extra opportunities to be right.

Dan can’t imagine how mortified he’d have been if his dad sat down with him at twelve and said ‘so I noticed you’ve been staring at your goalie, buddy’, is thankful no boys of any sort were mentioned until he came out to his parents, even though they did…not seem surprised, but Jaya’s visibly upset that Leon’s been brushing her off, and Leon looks miserable.

“So, Jaya, huh?” Dan says, after he’s looked over Leon’s English homework for him. Marc’s better at it, honestly, but Marc’s at a game, so Dan’s okay help will have to do. 

“Est-ce que c’est évident?” Leon asks after a moment.

“She thinks you’re mad at her,” Dan says, then when Leon opens his mouth, “I know you’re not.”

Leon picks at a loose thread on his shirt. “Désolé,” he says.

“Hey,” Dan says. “Nothing to be sorry about, Lion.”

“This sucks,” Leon says, after a moment, in blunt, firm English.

“I know, bud,” Dan says. “C’mere.” He’s selfishly glad one of his kids doesn’t consider himself too mature to hug his parents. “You want to talk about it?”

“Pas tout de suite,” Leon mumbles into Dan’s shirt. 

“Okay,” Dan says. “Whenever you’re ready, I’m here, you know that?”

“Je sais,” Leon says without hesitation, and Dan hugs him a little tighter.

 

Translation:

Est-ce que c’est évident? = Is it obvious?

Désolé = sorry

Pas tout de suite = Not right now

Je sais = I know


	145. Simon, Seb; high school

Seb packing up and leaving to play in the QMJHL would have probably been a much bigger deal — and admittedly sucked a lot more; Seb’s an annoying shit, but he’s Simon’s annoying shit — if Seb had been drafted by literally anyone other than Quebec City, considering Seb’s dad commutes there every day. It’s a shitty commute, Simon knows, not a short drive even without rush hour traffic. It always sucked for Seb when they were kids because his dad was out the door at six in the morning and often not home past seven at night, missed more hockey games than he made, but Simon is selfishly grateful for it now, because Seb takes advantage of the available father chauffeuring every chance he gets, probably spends as many nights in his bed at home as he does his billet.

Days he’s coming back he’ll text Simon to let him know, and Simon will make a point to do his homework when he gets back from school so he’ll have the time after dinner, knowing Seb’s doing the same in his dad’s car, somehow completely immune to the motion sickness Simon gets if he even cracks a book in a car, because he’s basically good at everything. Simon would resent it, except he…doesn’t, so.

When the season ends they’ve still got a few months of school before they graduate and start CEGEP. Or, before Simon starts CEGEP. It’s not like Seb needs to. He can start hockey full time, which has been his end goal since they were like…in kindergarten. 

“Maybe I should go too,” Seb says.

“You don’t need to,” Simon says. He’s got the Beauce-Appalaches website up, and Seb’s apparently gotten bored of leaning over him, breathing down his neck, and teasing him for being so keen to know what he’s going to be studying. Instead he’s apparently run right in the other direction. Still breathing down Simon’s neck, though. “Besides, you’d just have to drop it after a year when you’re drafted.”

“Why, I could keep playing for the Remparts,” Seb says. He’s got that frown on his face that means he’s going to be argumentative for the sake of being argumentative now. Like he wouldn’t want to jump into the league with both feet.

“You think your team would let you?” Simon asks.

“What’s that mean?” Seb asks.

“I mean you’re going to go somewhere shitty that needs you,” Simon says.

Seb shrugs. “Maybe,” he says.

“They’re already projecting you go in the top three next year, Sebastien,” Simon says. “Don’t do that bullshit modest thing.”

Seb grins. “Why do you know that, Simobelle?”

“I have the internet,” Simon says, gesturing at his computer. “See? And stop calling me that.”

“Sorry, Simobeau,” Seb says, unrepentant. “You’re reading draft predictions? You’re so sweet.”

Simon scowls.

“So sweet,” Seb repeats, then lays his head on Simon’s shoulder, chin digging in viciously.

“Where is my personal space,” Simon says despairingly.

“All mine now,” Seb says, then wraps an arm around Simon’s belly so he’s caught. “You may carry on now.”

“Thanks,” Simon says, dry, but clicks through programs idly, scrolling slowly enough for Seb to read along, and suffering the way Seb’s chin digs into his shoulder when he offers his opinions on the courses.


	146. MacDonald/Koskinen; out of control

Zach can’t say he’s particularly sweet on Koskinen from the start, and it’s been noticed. Presumably by Koskinen, because Zach’s gotten a couple concerned conversations with the two remaining members of the leadership trifecta, both with an eye on coddling The New Hope or whatever the fuck.

Koskinen may not have tipped them off, Zach will admit. Zach’s a friendly dude, a team player, and he hasn’t exactly rolled out the red carpet for Koskinen. Zach’s not being outright hostile, but the fact he isn’t being friendly is probably the equivalent of him waving a big red flag in their faces.

Koskinen hasn’t been — anything, really, since he came. Hasn’t tried to step into Saunders steps with the A, which makes it a fucking waste but not a fucking disaster. He’s so quiet you could miss him in every crowded room, but he’s still got his little clique already, guys Zach’s trying really hard not to judge for clinging to the superstar as soon as he arrives, like some of that overblown talent’s going to rub off on them if they rub off on him or what the fuck ever.

Obviously Zach wasn’t his biggest fan from the get-go, and he remains not his biggest fan, but he’s polite, considerate to the letter if not the spirit of hospitality. You couldn’t call him rude. He’s been perfectly welcoming, unless you know him. Unfortunately there are a lot of guys in that room who know him and are giving him unimpressed looks. Side-effect of the whole friendly thing.

Zach’s halfway to deciding he’s going to play nice, if not make nice, before a brutal skullfuck of a game in Toronto. First off: the fact they get destroyed in Toronto is bad enough. They had their fluke Cup, but they devolved right back into a fucking joke as soon as the morons got rid of Lapointe, and losing to them, period, is not a good sign. A worse sign is the whole getting destroyed thing, and two of those goals are directly on Koskinen, who didn’t do shit on defence, got the puck stripped from him and gaped like a fish on land rather than doing shit about it.

They’re piling right onto a flight to Ottawa after that debacle, getting out of Toronto like their asses are on fire, which it feels like right now. Koskinen lags behind the others after airport security, hopefully fucking embarrassed, ashamed, and Zach lags with him. He considers for a second saying what he’d say to any of his guys. That he had a shit game, no one’s disputing that, but he’ll rebound, that he should use it as fodder to improve himself. 

He really does consider it.

“That was on you,” Zach says. “You know that, right?”

Koskinen stops up. “Yes,” he says, which is kind of surprising. Then he takes a step again, like that’s it, they’re done, Zach called him on it and he admitted it, conversation done, Zach’s dismissed, which is some pompous bullshit.

“Hey,” Zach says, gets a hand on Koskinen’s shoulder, turns him forcibly to face him. He’s rougher than he means to be — he doesn’t like the guy, but he’s not in the business of physically assaulting anyone off the fucking ice. He pulls his hand back fast, has a half-assed apology on the tip of his tongue, when he notices Koskinen’s gone pink, a wash over his pale cheeks, breath coming too fast. That could be anger, fear, whatever, but the half hard in his stupidly tight hipster bullshit slacks? That puts a new spin on it.

“That how it is, Elias?” Zach asks, drawling real slow over it.

Zach doesn’t know what he expects the response to be. There are a couple options: some even more furious blushing, some stuttered excuses, some immediate ‘no homo’ crap. Maybe some anger, which Zach would be plenty happy to see, because frankly he’s itching for a fight right now.

Koskinen’s lashes, when they brush his cheeks, are pale shadows. “Maybe,” Koskinen says, so low Zach can barely hear him, and Zach is suddenly aware that this is entirely out of his control.


	147. Jake/David; intimacy

Another morning in that lost summer:

Every morning David wakes up in a bad mood. Jake’s met a bunch of people like that, and there’s a term for it and everything, the whole ‘not a morning person’ thing, but David is possibly the second most extreme example, even above Gally, who is basically mute until a switch turns on and he gets all his Gally energy for the day.

David’s grumpy is kind of adorable. It’s actually really adorable. Jake can’t say he feels the same amount of affection – or any – about the way Nat is basically non-human until she drinks her coffee, and has been known to use her pointy elbows to knock out the competition for first cup, so it’s a David thing. 

Maybe it’s because he doubts anyone else sees David like this. Waking up before training he takes a good twenty minutes to put himself together into, like, Other People David, but Jake bets if he woke up late and had to run down to the bus or woke up to a knock on the door or something, Other People David would immediately be on. The first few times David stayed over David wasn’t like this, was doing the whole Other People thing, but he doesn’t bother now, and he’s basically a nightmare.

Jake loves him so much he genuinely doesn’t know what to do with himself sometimes.

The alarm went off like fifteen minutes ago, so Jake’s probably taking a risk entering the bathroom while David’s still waking up. Definitely taking a risk sliding in the shower behind him.

“It isn’t your turn yet,” David enunciates very clearly, then turns just enough to glare at him for interrupting.

“I’ll wait,” Jake says, manages to get an arm around him and press a kiss to the shell of his ear before David slips out of his grasp.

“Wait out there,” David says.

“I’m wet now,” Jake says. “I’ll drip everywhere.”

David continues glaring at him. “Towels,” he says.

“What about them?” Jake asks.

“They get you dry,” David tells him, like Jake’s somehow never learned that.

“Do they?” Jake asks, happy to play dumb.

“I’m trying to wash my hair,” David says.

“I’m not stopping you,” Jake says, but honestly, that’s not really true. Jake lets him wash the shampoo out before he wraps his arms around him again, though, because shampoo in the eyes is unfun and David would be totally right to be mad at him if he caused that.

“We don’t have time,” David says. Doesn’t say what, because he never does, flustered right up until he isn’t. That’s not really true, exactly, but kind of is. Jake makes himself coffee and tea for David while David showers, David makes breakfast while Jake showers, they have a whole system, and they could mess with it and not be late but David would probably be stressed out the whole time, and shower sex isn’t really worth that.

“Not asking,” Jake says, pressing a kiss to the crown of David’s head, breathes in the peppermint smell from his shampoo. David relaxes after a moment, leaning back into him. Jake thinks if he looked at his phone he’d find they’d just hit the twenty minute mark exactly.

“Morning,” Jake says.

“Good morning,” David says. “I should go make breakfast.”

“In a minute,” Jake says. David’s hands move like he’s not sure what to do with them for a second before he rests them on Jake’s arms, and he lets Jake take his weight until after a minute — a literal one, Jake bets — he slips out of Jake’s grasp.

“Breakfast,” he says.

“Yeah,” Jake agrees, and David leans up enough to catch his lips before he slips out of the shower.

Jake loves him so much he genuinely doesn’t know what to do with himself any of the time, honestly.


	148. Liam, Ben, Rogers; crushing

“So there’s this guy on my team,” Liam says.

“Is it you?” Roge asks.

“No it is not me, listen, Roge,” Liam whines.

“Fine,” Roge sighs. 

“So there’s this guy on my team,” Liam says. “One of our little dudes.”

“Are you sure—”

“Age little!” Liam says. “Also: rude.”

“You set me up,” Roge says. 

“So I kind of think he’s got a crush on one of the guys? Like, he definitely has a crush, I’m just not sure if it’s crush crush or man crush.”

“I genuinely have no idea what the difference is,” Roge says.

“Like, crush crush is a crush, obviously. Man crush he just thinks he’s awesome but doesn’t want to bang him or anything,” Liam says.

“Like…friendship, Fitzy?” Roge asks.

“No, but like. Man crush!” Liam says. “Straight guys have them.”

“…sure,” Roge says.

“Anyway, I still haven’t figured out which one it is, but,” Liam says. “Like, everyone’s noticed. Everyone. I am 99% sure our GM has noticed.”

“Did you call to tell me the next coming of Liam has arrived or something?” Roge asks.

“No!” Liam says. “I mean, that’s kind of my question.”

“Oh, you had a question in there,” Roge says. “Somewhere.”

“Like, I wasn’t obvious like that, right?” Liam says. “I mean, nobody knew.”

“About your not man crush on Brouwer?” Roge asks.

“Right,” Liam says.

Roge starts laughing.

“Right?” Liam says.

Roge continues to laugh.

“I hate you,” Liam mutters.

“You too, buddy. Did you want to talk to Miranda and the kiddos?” Roge asks.

“Yes, go away, gimme,” Liam says, and Roge laughs and dutifully hands the phone to Miranda, who is much nicer to him.

*  
“So there’s this guy on my team,” Liam says.

“Is this guy you?” Ben asks.

“Why does everyone always ask that!” Liam complains. “It is not me.”

“Just asking,” Ben says. “It’s usually you.”

“It is not usually me,” Liam scoffs. “Anyway, so he’s one of our little…rookies, and he’s nursing this huge crush on one of our guys. Like, I’m not sure if it’s an actual crush or a man crush, but definite crush.”

“This sounds familiar,” Ben says.

“A man crush is—” Liam starts.

“I know what a man crush is, Fitzy,” Ben says.

“It’s what you have on me, right Benny?” Liam asks.

“Sure, buddy,” Ben says.

“So I was just wondering,” Liam says. “Because like everyone seems to know, like, down to the dude he’s crushing on, and like. Was I that obvious?”

“You mean did Brouwer know you had a crush on him?” Ben asks. “While you were sleeping together?”

“Well, obviously Mike knew,” Liam says. “But like…no one else did, right?”

Ben giggles.

“I don’t appreciate that response,” Liam says. “Just saying.”

“Sorry Fitzy,” Ben says, still giggling.

“Is Vicki there?” Liam asks.

“Yeah,” Ben says. “Laughing at you. Or me. Probably both of us.”

“Put the phone to her stomach,” Liam says.

“No,” Ben says.

“Vicki put the phone to your stomach, I want to talk to my godfetus!” Liam yells.

“Ow,” Ben says. “She can have you.”

“Hi Liam,” Vicki says. “You don’t carry babies in your stomach.”

“Hi Vicki,” Liam says. “Can I talk to my godfetus? In your not-stomach?”

“Stop calling the baby that,” Vicki says. “It makes Ben sad.”

“Tell me the sex and I will,” Liam says. “Godfetus?”

“Fine,” she sighs. “Only for a minute, though.”

“Hi baby!” Liam says. “I’m your uncle Liam. Not like by blood or anything like your uncle Luke, but still! I’m going to be your godfather, I was promised and there are no take-backs, okay? So look forward to that, because I’m going to spoil you rotten.”

“Hi uncle Liam,” Vicki says.

“You didn’t do it!” Liam says.

“I did, you’re just loud,” Vicki says. “Don’t worry, the message to your godfetus has been received.”

“Stop calling our baby that!” Ben yells in the background.

“Tell me the sex you monster!” Liam yells back. “I promise I won’t buy pink or blue!”

“Buy your goddaughter pink and I’m taking back the godfather status,” Ben says, taking the phone back.

“Really?” Liam says. “Really, Benny?”

“Really,” he says.

“Hi female godfetus!” Liam yells.

“I hate you, for the record,” Ben says.

“Nu uh,” Liam says. “Man crush on me.”

“I have better taste than that,” Ben says, and Liam makes offended noises at him until he takes it back.


	149. David's 24th Birthday (Jake POV)

The Panthers really need to find another bar. That’s Jake’s first thought, after, like, David, which isn’t really a thought as much as it’s a reaction, the word for his stomach dropping. Jake just kind of assumed no one else was going to be out drinking, considering they lost, but he wasn’t going to flake on Georgie just because they lost. Georgie’s a Cap, it wasn’t like them winning the game was surprising. And of course Volkov’s hanging out with David, he has every other time, and those weren’t even David’s birthday. Of course they’re going to the place the Panthers usually go. Volkov’s been here less than six months, this is the place he’d think of. Jake’s an idiot.

They could just go, Jake knows other places he could take Georgie to, but David’s looking right at him, and it’d be rude as hell not to acknowledge him, so Jake raises a hand, is pretty sure David’s actually waving at him this time when he does the same.

Georgie cranes his neck around. “Want to say hi?” he asks.

“It’s his birthday,” Jake says. “I’d be intruding.”

Georgie gives him a weird smile. “We’re saying hi,” he says, and starts walking over even as Jake protests, so Jake has to follow him or stand alone at the bar like a tool.

One of the Caps — Jake knows he used to play with Georgie, but doesn’t remember his name — glares at them as they walk up, because they’re definitely intruding, and David’s looking right at him. Jake kind of wants to disappear, and kind of wants David to keep looking at him forever, and those two things together just make him feel kind of sick.

“Hi,” he says, because that’s what you’re supposed to say, and it’s like…the only safe thing in his head right now.

“Hi,” David says back.

“Happy birthday,” Jake says.

David smiles at him a little. “Happy belated birthday,” he says. It’s not like it’s a hard birthday to remember, Christmas then Jake’s birthday, and David doesn’t forget like, anything, but it still makes Jake feel kind of warm.

“Thanks,” Jake says, and he’s probably smiling like an idiot.

“Hey,” Georgie says, “birthday drinks for the Capricorns! Since we all apparently know each other.”

Jake argues, David argues, the guy who was glaring argues, but somehow in the end Georgie and Jake are sitting down, and Jake blames Volkov for that. Also Georgie, but clearly Georgie just needed permission from one guy, and Volkov invited them to sit. Georgie also takes the spot beside David, which is objectively for the best, but Jake still kind of hates him right now.

The waitress Gally spends like 90% of his time flirting with comes by, Georgie orders them drinks, Jake can’t stop staring at David and is probably the most obvious person in the whole world. Joe’s going to laugh at him tomorrow. That or sigh.

“Sorry there wasn’t anything Canadian,” Georgie says.

“David doesn’t like Canadian beer,” Jake blurts before he can stop himself.

“I like some,” David says.

“Really?” Jake asks, because apparently he can’t shut up. How would he know, anyway? Jake hasn’t hung out with him in years, he could love Molson now for all Jake knows.

“Just because I don’t like Molson doesn’t mean I don’t like Canadian beer,” David says.

“Or Labatt,” Jake says. “Or Moosehead. Or Sleemans—”

“Shut up,” David says, but he laughs, that real one that Jake did like everything in his power to get as often as possible, that he couldn’t ever get enough of. “I like Mill St.”

Jake remembers the faces David made, testing them, far from a fan of most of them. He also remembers the fact his fridge was full of Organic for the rest of July, because David finally found a beer he didn’t just shrug at, but genuinely liked, and Jake figured emptying the nearest LCBO’s stock of it was a small price to pay.

“I know,” Jake says. “Me too.”

“There’s a story here,” Georgie says, too knowing, and Jake shrugs, looks away from David, afraid that was obvious. Georgie’s a smart dude, Georgie knows he likes guys, and Jake doesn’t want Georgie putting two and two together and figuring David out.

Georgie doesn’t push it, instead he goes into the story the time Jake met him at Development Camp. Jake knocked him on his ass trying to escape Rutledge with shaving cream, which was not exactly Jake’s greatest moment, and which Georgie makes sound even worse than it was — the bruises were not that bad, okay — but thankfully means a change of subject, so Jake’s okay with Georgie making him sound like a dope.

“I’m going to the washroom,” David says suddenly in the middle of Georgie’s story, and he’s not usually rude like that, so something’s probably set him off. Probably the way Jake keeps looking at him, and Jake feels like shit, making him uncomfortable, making him run from his friends just to avoid him.

Volkov gives Jake a funny look that Jake can’t figure out, and Jake slides out of the booth, says, “bathroom,” because if David doesn’t want him there, he’s gone, but he’s not going to make David say it in front of everyone, because he knows he won’t.

“I’m sorry,” Jake says the second David comes out of the bathroom. “I didn’t know—”

“It’s fine,” David interrupts, then, maybe because that word basically means nothing coming out of his mouth and he knows Jake knows it, “Really.”

“I didn’t mean to crash your birthday,” Jake says. “I know I’m not exactly welcome, I can head out if—”

“Why would you think that?” David cuts him off.

Something in Jake twists, hard, and it’s hard to tell himself not to get his hopes up when that’s like, the definition of who he is. He’s still trying though. “What do you mean?” Jake asks carefully. Maybe he’s misunderstanding. He’s probably misunderstanding.

“Why would you think you weren’t welcome?” David asks.

That whole not getting his hopes up thing is losing badly and Jake tries to shrug off that huge part of him that’s clutching onto David’s words like a lifeline. “We haven’t exactly talked in awhile,” he says.

“Yeah,” David says, sounding upset now. “Because you stopped talking to me.”

Jake feels kind of like David just punched him in the gut and he doesn’t even know if it’s in a good way or a bad way, it’s just there. Hurting.

“David—” Jake says, doesn’t know what he’s going to say, shouldn’t be saying anything, because it’s probably going to be big, and too much, and scare David away, but Jake doesn’t know how not to say it either.

“I need to go back before Kiro lets Robbie kill Georgie,” David says, walks out of the hall quickly, and Jake goes into the bathroom because following on David’s heels would be kind of obvious, and he needs to just like. Look at himself in the mirror and take a breath, get control of himself. He looks kind of like he just got punched in the gut, so that’s good. Looks exactly like he’s feeling.

When he gets back to the table David’s basically cuddling with Volkov, which is a pretty clear sign to Jake to fuck off. Jake tries to remember a time David sat that close to anyone in public, and he’s coming up completely blank. Hell, it was rare enough for him to sit that close to Jake when they were in private.

Jake’s trying really hard not to hate Volkov, here, because obviously he genuinely cares about David and Jake is inclined to like anyone who cares about David, because Jake hates how short that list seems to be. He’s losing the battle, though, especially once Volkov wraps an arm around David like some kind of high school boyfriend or something, more when David doesn’t shrug him off.

Volkov’s telling some story about the Pens, and Jake knows it’s rude not to listen, so he tries to, first to Volkov, then to Robbie, who Jake gathers everyone at the table knows except for Jake. Like, that makes sense, obviously, since Caps and all, and Jake guesses David’s just…introducing Volkov to his teammates or whatever.

A voice that sounds a lot like Joe tells him to get the fuck over himself, which is good advice, the kind of advice Joe would give, except maybe Joe’s slightly nicer about it. Jake tries to do that, the getting the fuck over himself, the listening, the not staring at David, and he thinks he’s kind of awful at all of them.

David’s laughing. A lot. Not like more than everyone else, maybe not even as much as everyone else, but when Robbie’s telling a story about some of the antics of a weird dude on the Terriers, David laughs out loud, and it’s a lot. He’s laughing, and smiling, and leaning into Volkov, totally unselfconscious, and he looks happy, and like someone Jake barely knows at all.

Maybe he is. Maybe, in the years since Jake’s last talked to him, properly talked to him, this is what he became, and Jake just. Missed it. Missed it completely while missing him, while David was becoming this completely different person, this happy person. He’s not completely different — he’s still quiet. Flustered easily, going red when Georgie teases him, nudges him in the side. Still drinks slower than everyone else, except for Jake, who’s drinking as slow as he can without looking weird, because Jake doesn’t trust himself at all right now.

He’s still the most beautiful person Jake’s ever seen, and Jake still doesn’t know how not to be overwhelmed by that.

Also still a lightweight, and Jake can’t help the wash of affection when he can see David start to droop a little, even if he’s drooping into Volkov.

“Sleepy, Davidson?” Volkov asks, that stupid nickname again, when David always hated nicknames, for him or for anyone.

“A little, I guess,” David says, even though he looks about five minutes from falling asleep.

“It’s a long season,” Jake says automatically. They’re not even halfway through it, and it’s already started up again as their mantra when anyone’s tired, because everyone’s always tired.

“Truer words,” Georgie says.

“Maybe time to leave?” Volkov asks.

It’s probably that stupid optimism again, but Jake could swear David hesitates. “Okay,” he says, though, then, “Robbie?” Doesn’t include Georgie in it, but then, Georgie was there to catch up with Jake, so that makes sense. Jake’s kind of tempted to tell Georgie to go back with them, since he doesn’t really think he’s going to be good company right now, but he can try to be.

Robbie heads to the bathroom first, and David tries to give Georgie some money for the beer. There’s so much about him that’s just completely different, but some things never change, Jake guesses. It’s kind of comforting to know that. Georgie’s stubborn beats out David’s stubborn, maybe just because David wants to leave. He’s out the door fast enough, a quick ‘good night’ and then he’s gone before Jake can even respond.

Jake sags forward once the door’s shutting behind David and Volkov, suddenly exhausted.

“Shove over,” Georgie says, and Jake obediently scoots, tries to sit up properly, still ending up slumping like his strings are cut.

“Hey,” Georgie says, hand settling on his back. “You okay, man?”

“Sure,” Jake says to the table. “Totally fine.”

Georgie probably doesn’t believe him, considering he keeps his hand on his back, rubs a little, like Jake’s dad used to do when Jake had the flu.

“Chaps, huh?” Georgie says.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jake mumbles, and Georgie laughs, so he probably didn’t believe that either.

“If it helps, he spent as much time staring at you as you did at him,” Georgie says.

“It doesn’t,” Jake says, though he isn’t sure that’s true. “That obvious?”

“Yeah,” Georgie says. “You’ve probably got a hell of a story, huh?”

“Ancient history,” Jake says, but that doesn’t feel true.


	150. David's 24th Birthday (Georgie POV)

Of all the bars in Sunrise, Jake had to pick this one.

Well, to be honest, Georgie doesn’t think ‘all the bars in Sunrise’ add up to much. Georgie’s not dissing Sunrise or anything — well, he is, but he lived in Cleveland for years, so he doesn’t have much high ground there — he’s just very aware that while he’s waiting for Jake, Robbie is either burning holes into the back of his head or pretending he doesn’t exist. Or trying to do both, which isn’t really possible, but that technicality wouldn’t stop Robbie. Robbie’s tenacious.

“Hi,” Jake says, coming in just when Georgie suspects his hair’s starting to get singed and pulling him into a loose hug. “Sorry, media.”

“No worries,” Georgie says. “Ordered Sam Adams for both of us, if that’s okay.”

“Awesome, thanks,” Jake says, and then just kind of — stops, eyes caught on something behind Georgie’s shoulder.

Georgie recognizes the look on his face. Or, not it, exactly, it’s not one he’s seen, but he recognizes the feeling behind it. That’s not surprising: Jake has one of the easiest faces in the world to read, and it’s convenient, because you’re never unsure where you are with him, but sometimes Georgie wants to shake him and tell him to get some self-preservation. He can manage a poker face with the media, Georgie’s seen him do it, but the rest of the time he’s so, so exposed.

He raises his hand in a wave, and Georgie turns, following his gaze. It’s Chaps he’s waving at, Chaps who looks like the low-key version of Jake, and man, Georgie might think it was two rivals staring like they’re about to pull their guns out in a duel, except Georgie recognized the look on Jake’s face, and that isn’t even close. “Want to say hi?” he asks.

“It’s his birthday, I’d be intruding,” Jake says, but he’s practically quivering to get over there, like a dog hearing a key in the lock and waiting for their owner to open the door, to come home to them.

“We’re saying hi,” Georgie decides for him, because he’s not going to do it himself. Whatever the story is there, and Georgie’s sure it’s a damn interesting one, it includes knowing David’s birthday and pulling out a hybrid longing/eye fuck, and Georgie has zero interest in Jake quietly pining over his shoulder all night.

What he gets instead is Jake sitting across from him and pining in complete juxtaposition to the vicious look Robbie gives him periodically, when he forgets that he’s pretending Georgie doesn’t exist. Jake and Chaps have this short conversation about beer that Georgie can practically feel the subtext in, the space between the words, so squirrelly when Georgie brings attention to it that he takes pity on them and changes the subject to meeting a sixteen year old Jake, string-bean thin and all clumsy limbs, practically the opposite of the guy who’s sitting across from him now, who might even have ten pounds on Georgie now, the bastard.

“I’m going to the washroom,” David interrupts, and Georgie blinks, but moves to let David out. He’s barely started talking again when Jake says, “bathroom,” and follows David, and Georgie raises his eyebrows because that was not subtle, looks over at Kirill, who raises his eyebrows back at him.

“Well,” Georgie says.

“Yes,” Kirill says.

“I guess I’m just really bad at telling stories,” Georgie says, and both Robbie and Kirill snort. Only one of them actually sounds amused, but that’s fine. “I don’t even know what I was saying. I don’t even care what I was saying, honestly.”

He can see the corner of Robbie’s mouth twitch up before he takes a sip of beer, and an awkward silence settles before Kirill thankfully starts talking about post-Cup shenanigans. David comes back to the table soon after, leans on Kirill heavily, more touchy than Georgie’s seen him with anyone, even Robbie, who’s one of the touchiest people Georgie knows in both senses of the word. Maybe it’s not the best word. Touch-starved. Affectionate, Georgie supposes. He can’t use past tense, even if it feels like it to him, because Robbie’s still like that, hanging off of Matthews, Whelan, needling them until they get annoyed and swat at him, going a hundred miles an hour until he sees Georgie, then either slamming on the brakes or going full-tilt, tearing into him.

The night’s turned into this impromptu exchange of stories. Georgie knows everyone at the table except for David’s friend Kirill, but he sees Jake a couple times a year, has known David a month, so it’s hardly a situation where you can’t pull out the best ones, where they’re already known.

Well, Georgie knows Robbie’s, up to a point. He was there for a lot of them, especially the running tally of Lee’s increasingly weird behavior during first year. At one point Robbie refers to ‘my roomie’, and Georgie wonders why it is Robbie can’t just say his name, like it’s cursed or a curse or maybe just like acknowledging things were ever good with them makes the bad worse.

Georgie’s got his own share of BU stories, but they all include Robbie, at least the ones he’d want to tell, and he doubts Robbie will appreciate it, so he sticks to safer avenues, doesn’t mention Robbie once, not by name, not ‘roomie’ or ‘best friend’ or ‘boyfriend’. Not at all.

David starts drooping pretty early, agrees to go back. Georgie could go back with them, they’re all going to the same place, but Jake’s still got that stunned open look that hasn’t dropped from his face all night, that expression that looks like it hurts, and Georgie’s not leaving before he makes sure he’s okay. He doesn’t seem to be, considering soon as they leave Jake slumps over the table like he no longer has the energy to sit up, the will, anything.

“Shove over,” Georgie says, because it hurts to look at him, and Jake does without a word, exhaling hard when Georgie puts a hand on his back. “Hey, you okay, man?” Georgie asks. Already knows the answer to that, but it’s polite to at least pretend obliviousness.

“Sure,” Jake says, muffled. “Totally fine.”

Georgie rubs over his back, and Jake tenses under it then relaxes all at once. “Chaps, huh?” Georgie asks, because it may be polite to pretend obliviousness and all, but Georgie doesn’t believe in playing stupid.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jake mumbles into the table, and Georgie can’t help but laugh.

“If it helps, he spent as much time staring at you as you did at him,” Georgie says.

“It doesn’t,” Jake says, but he sounds a little less miserable, so Georgie doesn’t believe him. “That obvious?”

“Yeah,” Georgie says. “You’ve probably got a hell of a story, huh?”

“Ancient history,” Jake says, and Georgie means to prod at that one a little, ancient history like Development Camp or ancient history like…Robbie, but it gets interrupted by Robbie flopping down across from them like he’s been summoned by the thought.

“Thought you were heading back,” Georgie says, and it’s insane how fast Jake straightens up, slumping again when he realizes it’s Robbie.

“Told David someone had to get you back safe,” Robbie says flatly.

Honestly, the most dangerous thing on Georgie’s way back to the hotel is going to be Robbie.

He’s still glad he stuck around.

“Thanks,” Georgie says.

“Whatever,” Robbie says, looking away, once again doing that unspoken thing where Georgie looks at Robbie, and Robbie pretends he doesn’t notice Georgie looking.


	151. David's 24th Birthday (Kiro POV)

Kiro miscalculated this evening.

That’s what he tells Emily later: he miscalculated.

“Kir, you ended the night exchanging ‘I love you’s with your platonic boyfriend,” Em says.

“Just because it worked out doesn’t mean I did not miscalculate,” Kiro argues. “Also, Jake might kill me next practice.”

“Well, that’s always been a concern,” Em says. She sounds like she’s laughing at him. That’s fair. He’s laughing at himself, a little.

*

Here are Kiro’s miscalculations:

First: Kiro insists they go out for Davidson’s birthday. Him, Davidson, Robbie, hopefully for the sort of night where Davidson forgets himself enough to have a good time. Robbie seems like he’ll be a good ally in this: they’ve added each other on most forms of social media, and the very existence of accounts is heartening, but the sheer ridiculousness of Robbie’s instagram comforts Kiro, knowing that Davidson’s found someone who will hopefully nudge him every time he gets too serious. It isn’t good for him or anyone else. He has such a lovely smile.

Second: Kiro takes them to a bar he was introduced to by Panthers teammates. To be fair, it’s the best bar in Sunrise he’s been acquainted with, and Davidson seems wary enough every time Kiro mentions Orange that Kiro doesn’t want to force him into an introduction on his birthday by inviting Davidson and Robbie over.

Third: Kiro can’t resist inviting Georgie and Jake to sit with them. This Kiro cannot blame on anyone but himself, but he’d like to deflect some of the blame just for his peace of mind.

So, blame deflection:

First: Robbie. Robbie, whose overt hostility toward Georgie put the cherry on top of the intriguing situation Kiro picked up from Davidson through brief mentions of run ins that made him feel uncomfortable. More fairly Kiro should blame his curiosity for that one, but Robbie certainly made it difficult to be content not knowing.

Second: Georgie. Georgie, who Kiro increasingly realizes is at least peripherally aware of the tension between Jake and David. Kiro wouldn’t be particularly impressed — it’s transparent — but the fact Georgie picks up on it is impressive considering he spends at least 80% of his time staring at Robbie. Georgie invited himself and Jake over, Georgie made the introductions, Georgie facilitated the situation. This makes Georgie an accessory.

Third: Davidson. This isn’t blame so much as the only reason Kiro didn’t overrule his curiosity for the sake of Davidson’s feelings, because of course Davidson’s feelings trump curiosity, on his birthday or any other day. Jake arrives, and Davidson’s reaction isn’t discomfort. Or, it is discomfort — Davidson’s reaction is often discomfort, even to things he ends up enjoying — but it isn’t a bad sort, a need to get away. Kiro thinks he’s pretty good at reading Davidson by now — he’s not easy, but once you speak Davidson, it isn’t so hard — but he checks in with him before Georgie pushes the issue by approaching, and Davidson’s ‘it’s a free country’, the sort of lukewarm statement he makes when he wants something, along with the fact he makes zero effort to avoid eye contact with Jake or remove himself from the situation means that, despite his squirming protest, Georgie inviting himself over and Kiro accepting that invitation is exactly what he wants, even if he won’t admit it to himself.

And fourth: Jake. Kiro doesn’t dislike Jake. Jake’s a very good captain, cares about his team, both the entity itself and the men who comprise it. Jake certainly doesn’t lack faults: Kiro doesn’t have enough information about the details of the incidents that ended the relationship he had with Davidson, but Kiro can piece things together from what Davidson reluctantly told him, the negative space of Armand’s telling, the stops and starts of Gally’s. Can see it in David’s insecurity every time his sexuality comes up, every time he reiterates that he’s uncomfortable with Kiro saying anything about it, checks that he hasn’t, insecurity that would perhaps grate if Kiro wasn’t intimately aware of why it exists, trusted information transferred trusted hands and slipping through fingers. Jake, who is to blame for that, and who looks like he’s self-flagellating every time he meets Davidson’s eyes. It isn’t Kiro’s job to hand him the whip, but nor is it his job to take it away, and if Jake wants to sit across from Davidson, penitent and hurting, as long as Davidson wants him there, Kiro is in favor of it.

Four facilitators for Kiro’s misstep. To be fair, he can’t be sure of the ramifications, but Davidson, his size and yet somehow small and fragile in his arms, hiding his face in Kiro’s throat, Jake the next time he sees him, looking raw, sounding raw, like Kiro reopened wounds — not surgically, but by tearing at the seams — it may have been a misstep.

And yet he can’t regret it.

*

When Davidson goes, Kiro goes with him, first into the car, then into Davidson’s space, because Davidson looks so alone, adrift.

He miscalculated. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“For what?” Davidson asks.

Kiro gestures, but there’s no real gesture for doing something you hope will help, fear will harm. “It was not what I planned for your birthday,” he says, because that’s certainly true.

“It was fine,” Davidson says, the Davidson stutter, then, “It was good,” which actually means something. Something good, obviously.

“Good,” Kiro says, cheered. “Then I planned everything this way.”

That’s certainly untrue, and Davidson knows it, but he doesn’t call him on it, stays quiet, reflective on the drive, not pulling away from Kiro until they get to the hotel.

“Wait?” Kiro asks the driver, following Davidson out, and takes that adrift, at sea boy into his arms, holds on, hopes he can anchor him.

“You’re comforting,” Davidson says once Kiro’s encircled him, so unlike himself that Kiro laughs.

“You’re drunk,” he guesses.

“I’m not,” Davidson argues with a stubborn edge that means whether he is or not is utterly irrelevant, because Kiro would lose that argument.

“Happy birthday,” Kiro says instead, hopes that’s the case, and kisses him on the crest of his cheekbone. Davidson shoves him, uncomfortable again, but the discomfort of something he wants but doesn’t know how to ask for. “Love you, Davidson,” Kiro adds, because it’s true, and because he thinks it’s something Davidson needs to hear right now.

Davidson pushes him, flustered, fully flustered, but underneath everything he’s glowing.

“Say I love you,” Kiro presses.

“I love you too,” Davidson says, hardly more than a mumble, sounding like it’s torn out of him, raw and true, sounding like someone on the edge of tears, and when Kiro pulls him in for a hug, Davidson’s face is a burning brand against his skin, and he clutches to Kiro like a lifeline.

*

“It sounds like it was a good day,” Em says.

“It was,” Kiro agrees.


	152. Mike/Liam; any moment Liam knows that Mike loves him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This involves frank discussion of Mike’s medical status and prognosis and a very brief reference to suicide (not in re: to the characters specifically), and if you’d prefer to avoid that, please do.

Liam was never really a good student or anything, because school wasn’t really his thing, but when it comes to things he loves, he’s baller at research and remembers everything he learns. As a kid that was hockey, and he could still name the full roster of the Habs every single year of his life from the ages of like, six to eighteen. If he thought hard, he could probably completely replicate that mental list of things he wanted to try with Mike before anything ever happened between them, fantasy fuelling research, research fuelling fantasy. If he likes doing it, he learns as much as he can about.

Liam doesn’t like the research he’s doing, has been doing for years, but he’s as studious as he never was about anything but things he’s enjoyed. Preliminary internet research when he was still in Detroit, but that was super unhelpful since everything just ended up with ‘death! APOCALYPSE! Probably’, so Liam went offline. Bugged Mike until he let him tag along to an appointment with a neurologist, who answered his questions better than fucking Web MD or Wikipedia, let him know about potential complications and increased risks. Went to the CTE Center when the North Stars went out to play the Bruins, because that wasn’t — they couldn’t diagnose it or anything, but he wanted to know what to expect, what symptoms to pay attention to.

He hates it. He fucking hates it. He listens and he learns and the whole time he feels sick to his stomach. Liam’s not just going to sit on his hands and make Mike deal with it alone, though, even when Mike doesn’t want the help. Even so, he quickly learns experience trumps research: he can read a list of symptoms, but that doesn’t tell him which Mike deals with. He has the migraines but not the temper issues, or at least his temper’s no worse than it’s always been. Short term memory’s an issue, but as far as cognition goes, he’s still at least twice as smart as Liam's ever been, tongue as sharp and quick as ever.

It’s experience, not research that tells him when the best thing he can do for Mike is steer clear, that there isn’t anything he can do to help a migraine except time and quiet. When the best thing he can do is nag Mike until he gives in for the sake of his health, because Liam has zero regrets for throwing down the gauntlet about Bella, can leave for a road trip without the sick twist in the pit of his stomach, knowing she’s looking out for Mike, that looking out for her structures Mike’s days. That he’s probably letting her sleep on the fucking bed again, but that’s a small price to pay.

Only experience, a night in an emergency room, and seven stitches can teach him when to ignore Mike’s tremors for the sake of (basically) marital harmony, which is most of the time, and when Mike’s ego is overriding intelligence, and Liam should step in, which is when sharp knives are involved. He makes sure to let Mike get some of his own back by mercilessly insulting Liam’s admittedly terrible knife skills while Liam cries in the direction of an onion, though. It’s only fair.

The point is, Liam knows what to expect. The signs to look out for, the reality of things, and most days he can live with that. Some days he can even forget it. Other days it’s harder, and those days usually get sparked by some stupid shit Liam says, worsen with some stupid shit Mike says. Sometimes it’s the opposite, but stupid shit is definitely said. That’s usually how all their arguments go.

This time it’s, of all fucking things, a sugar daddy joke. Liam’s living in Mike’s house, eating his food, enjoying the whole silver fox thing about as much as Mike hates that he’s going grey at the temples. It looks good on him. Liam thinks basically everything looks good on him, but it’s extra good.

Anyway, basically Liam’s got a sugar daddy and he’s super fine with that.

“You make four million dollars a year to my nothing, kid,” Mike says dryly. “I don’t think you qualify as a sugar baby or whatever the fuck.”

Liam makes more in the end, but only because Mike’s awesome at investment. Or like, awesome at picking investment planners, at least. If it was up to Liam he probably would have blown a chunk on some mansion way too big for the two of them (and Bella), a car that’s pretty and useless in Minny winters (he got so close before Mike talked him out of it), maybe, like. A boat. Boats are pretty cool. 

“I’m stupid about money, I’ll probably blow it all in retirement,” Liam says. “I clearly need your guidance, therefore: sugar baby.”

He thinks it’s a compelling argument.

“I’ll write you some tips since I’m probably dead or drooling by then,” Mike says. “Left my stock portfolio to you in my will anyway.”

It’s not. Liam’s not in denial. Liam isn’t afraid of talking about it: he’s done it with doctors, lawyers, counsellors, Mike’s fucking mother, for god’s sake. Liam knows prognosis. Liam knows stages, life expectancy. Suicide mentioned more often than not. Mental deterioration always. This is what research gave him, fuck it so hard. Not the skills for dealing for it, just the facts that sit hard and ugly in him. Liam knows the facts.

“Fuck you,” he spits out, walks right out into the freezing night in a pair of Mike’s boots, too big, and therefore quick to slip on, and a long-sleeved t-shirt, not nearly warm enough. Makes it to the park a block away, but has to turn around after five minutes when he starts shivering. He doesn’t even have his keys, so he can’t sit in the car, warm up, cool down, has to go back inside, which he does, goes straight upstairs, curling up on Mike’s side of the bed.

Mike comes up a few minutes later, settles a hand on his shoulder. “You’re freezing,” he says.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” Liam retorts.

Mike squeezes gently. “Sorry,” he says.

“It’s not funny, okay?” Liam says. “I know that’s your thing, just — I get it, but it’s not fucking funny to me.”

“C’mere,” Mike says, and Liam sits up, tucks himself into Mike, who’s as warm as Liam is cold right now.

“I don’t want you to leave me behind,” Liam says into Mike’s shirt.

“I don’t want to,” Mike says. “You think that doesn’t scare the shit out of me too, Liam? Who’s going to feed you? You’re going to eat microwave dinners until you die of malnutrition.”

Liam snorts, wipes his eyes.

“You’re twenty-nine years old,” Mike says. “You didn’t sign on for this.”

“Shut up,” Liam mumbles.

“You can walk away,” Mike says. “I wouldn’t blame you. I’d be happy for you.”

“Fuck off,” Liam says, turns his face into Mike’s throat. “You’re stuck with me. You’d think you’d be used to it by now.”

“Don’t know how to be,” Mike says. “Every day you’re a new pile of trouble. Can’t get used to you if you keep surprising me.”

“Is it — is it really fucking stupid I miss you already?” Liam asks. Waits for Mike to say yes, to crack a joke, to lighten the tension the way he usually does when Liam has his heart on his sleeve and Mike looks away and pretends he didn’t see it.

“I’m so fucking angry every day,” Mike says, and before Liam can joke that’s no different than when he was thirty, “I’m so angry that I probably won’t see what stupid shit you get up to with your mid-life crisis.”

Mike’s neck is wet with tears, but he doesn’t acknowledge it, at least out loud, wraps an arm around Liam’s shaking shoulders and pulls him in until Liam’s curled up in his lap.

“You’re heavy as fuck,” he says.

“Maybe I’ll get fat,” Liam says. “And bald. And really into model trains or bridge in my old age or something.”

“God forbid,” Mike says.

“You won’t be missing much, is what I’m saying,” Liam says. “Except maybe more chances to make fun of me.”

“I’m going to miss so much,” Mike says, so low Liam barely hears him, turns his head to press a kiss into Liam’s hair. “I’m sorry.”

“Why do you only apologise for things that aren’t your fault?” Liam mumbles.

“I’m a contrary bastard?” Mike asks.

“Sounds about right,” Liam says. Closes his eyes and lets Mike tip his head up, lips brushing his temple, cheekbone, mouth, and when he kisses Liam it tastes like salt.


	153. Mike, Liam, Roman; hey neighbor

Mike honestly wouldn’t have even noticed the fucking moron if he hadn’t hidden. It’s not like he was paying all that much attention in the first place, but it’s hard to miss a grown fucking man’s sudden disappearance from his place in front of the hot dog buns.

Liam tries and fails to contain a snort, so Mike suspects this is his fault somehow.

“One of yours?” Mike asks.

“Roman, get up,” Liam says.

The guy popping up certainly doesn’t look like a rookie. Mike gives Liam a suspicious look, which he ignores, and then another one to Roman.

“Hi Fitzy,” Roman says. “What you up to? Shopping?”

“We’re in a supermarket,” Mike says flatly.

“That we are,” Roman says, awkwardly. “Well, I’ll let you get back to it. Shopping.”

“Roman,” Liam says, visibly trying not to laugh. “Mike, Mike, Roman.”

“Nice to meet you,” Mike says, and is faintly taken aback when Roman looks like Mike just told him to fuck off.

“Sure,” Roman says. “Anyway, shopping, bye!”

“That is a weird fucking dude,” Mike says.

“You knocked his teeth out,” Liam says.

“Oh, that guy?” Mike asks.

“Yes,” Liam says.

Mike shrugs. “Didn’t look familiar.”

“I think you just broke his heart,” Liam says, finally giving into a giggle.

*

Mike guesses Roman must live in the neighborhood, because that is not the last he sees of him. That or he’s stalking Mike, but he doesn’t think so, considering the second time they run into one another at the supermarket, Roman again looks like he’s considering hiding, but it’s a little more difficult in the freezer aisle. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who can pull off acting, and that’s a cornered look if Mike ever saw one.

Mike could ignore him. That seems to be what he’d prefer, the kind thing to do.

“Afternoon,” Mike says.

“Hi,” Roman says.

“Sorry I knocked your teeth out,” Mike says.

“That was you?” Roman asks. Confirmed, he is a terrible fucking actor.

“Sorry I forgot knocking your teeth out,” Mike says.

“Oh, well,” Roman says, shifting from foot to foot like an overgrown kid. “You know, no biggie.”

“Okay,” Mike says.

“Okay,” Roman says. “Um. Enjoy your broccoli?”

Mike looks down at the package in his hand, then up at Roman, can’t help raising an eyebrow.

“Okay, bye!” Roman says.

*

Mike usually drags Liam shopping with him. It’s an unpleasant enough chore that he wants to spread the annoyance around, not that Liam minds it, he’s less likely to get a pout for forgetting to restock something only Liam likes, and honestly it’s a toss up whether he feels up to driving, and somehow the days he doesn’t are always the days they run out of fucking bread.

Liam’s in New York, though, and Mike could spitefully wait until he’s back next week, except, well. Fucking bread.

He can honestly say he did not expect to see Roman.

“Injury or suspension?” Mike asks, and Roman jumps nearly a foot.

“Jesus fuck, man,” Roman says.

“Guess it’s not injury?” Mike asks. Least not a lower body one. He got some height there.

Roman holds up a tensored wrist.

“Sprained?” Mike asks.

“Yeah,” Roman says.

“Sucks,” Mike says.

“Yeah,” Roman says.

Mike’s got his bread, and honestly, shit gets boring when Liam’s not hanging around, bugging him. He’s in no hurry to get home right now. “Want some help?” Mike asks.

“Seriously?” Roman asks.

Mike shrugs.

“Yeah,” Roman says. “Thanks, man.”


	154. Francis/Drake; outside POV

Josh’s life is terrible. For one thing, he’s 99% sure his fingers are broken.

“They’re not broken,” Dr. Ito says.

“They feel broken,” Josh says.

“Have you broken fingers before?” Dr. Ito asks.

“No,” Josh admits.

“It might be best to send you for some x-rays, but I’m fairly sure you just sprained them,” Dr. Ito says.

“Oh good,” Josh says.

Terrible. Life is terrible. Things could be worse, though. Josh could be Patrick. Guy can’t catch a break, and today’s clearly no exception, because he comes through the door right after Dr. Ito releases Josh’s hand.

“Hey bud, what’d you do to yourself this time?” Josh says. Considering Patrick’s got a red soaked towel in front of his face, Josh’s money is on nose. Could be mouth, though. Mouths bleed a lot. Especially Patrick’s. Or maybe his just bleeds often.

“I didn’t do it to myself,” Patrick says irritably. It’s kind of undermined by the fact he sounds like he’s got a cold.

“What happened?” Dr. Ito asks, striding over to the door.

“Fucking high stick. Stupid nose is bleeding too much to get back on, even with plugs in, so they sent me to you,” Patrick says.

Josh Gregor, you are a genius.

“Drake, we have to stop meeting this way,” Dr. Ito says. “For the sake of your long-term health.”

“You caught me,” Patrick says. “Gregor’s right, I did it to myself. I just wanted a lollipop.”

“Figured,” Dr. Ito says, then, “Go sit down and let me see. If you behave I’ll give you a lemon one.”

“You’re so nice to me,” Patrick says, sounding pretty cheerful for someone who just took a high stick to the face, and Josh gets up so he’s got a place to sit.

“Lean forward for me,” Dr. Ito says once Patrick’s sat down and he’s changed his gloves. Josh has been on Patrick’s side of this before, and what he recalls as painful prodding looks a little, uh. He wonders if it always looks so…

Basically Josh feels awkward. He’d like to be excused.

There’s a knock on the door, and Josh loves whoever’s on the other side. Loves ‘em. It’s Joey, which makes sense. Probably got sent by Coach Burns for a status report since they’re down two centres. Josh bets Burns isn’t too happy.

“Stay still,” Dr. Ito says, then steps out to talk to Joey.

Literally the second the door shuts Patrick hops up, walking over to a cabinet against the wall and pulling a drawer open.

“What are you doing?” Josh asks.

Patrick holds up a lemon lollipop. “Want one?” he asks.

“Seriously?” Josh says. “You are here way too much.”

“Purple?” Patrick says.

“Yeah, sure,” Josh says, then, “Don’t throw it, dude, my fucking hand,” when Patrick makes as if to lob it over.

“Oh yeah, sorry,” Patrick says, walking it over to him and taking the wrapper off so Josh doesn’t have to fumble at it one handed. He’s a good guy to have around when you’re hurt. Knows exactly what everything involves. Had two broken fingers earlier this season. If there’s a laundry list of injuries, he’s got to be halfway down it by now. Might hit the full quota by retirement if he isn’t in a freaking wheelchair and he doesn’t get hit by anything career ending before he can finish the list.

“Can you even taste that?” Josh asks when Patrick sticks a lollipop in his own mouth.

“Not really,” Patrick says. “But I deserve sugar for my suffering.”

“The lollipop or the sweet talk?” Josh asks.

“Huh?” Patrick asks.

“I feel like I’m in a fucking romantic comedy here,” Josh says. “‘We have to stop meeting this way’! ‘You’re so nice to me!’ Actually, I feel kind of like I’m in the set-up to a porno. Wait until I leave before you pull out the stirrups.”

Patrick throws a lollipop at his head. Another grape one.

“You may as well open it for me, asshole,” Josh says, and Patrick sighs but comes over to take the wrapper off.


	155. Robbie/Georgie; adulting

There’s something weirdly grown up about waking up in Georgie’s apartment. Like, when Robbie goes back, first he’s waking up at his parents, then he’ll be waking up in a dorm again, same as it’s been the last two years, but right now he’s sharing a bed with Georgie that isn’t a fucking twin or in a hotel, which is. Weird but really good. Like, domestic. Robbie’s not exactly looking forward to going back, figuring out how to navigate his life without Georgie constantly attached at the hip to him, but right now Georgie’s apartment is just like…a vacation from life or whatever.

“You up?” Georgie asks, tucking his chin into the place Robbie’s neck meets his shoulder.

Robbie grunts and turns his head, presses a kiss to the nearest part of Georgie, which ends up being his forehead.

“Hey,” Georgie says. “Breakfast? Eggs?”

“I think it’s hilarious that you get an apartment and suddenly think you can cook,” Robbie says.

“I can cook,” Georgie says. “It’s eggs, dude. You just watch me.”

“Nah,” Robbie says, and rolls onto his stomach. “Sleep.”

“Lazy,” Georgie says, punctuating it with a smack to Robbie’s ass as he gets out of bed.

“Sleep,” Robbie repeats. He’d reach for Georgie, try to drag him back to bed, but honestly, he is too lazy. Georgie’s got training camp shit starting tomorrow so he’s trying to get on schedule or whatever, but Robbie’s a free man until September, and he’s going to use all that time wisely. By sleeping. And wandering around Cleveland alone, he guesses, without Georgie to entertain him during the day, but he may as well get used to it. Unless they trade him or send him down (unlikely, after what they told him after rookie camp) Georgie’s here for awhile, so Robbie’s going to have to get to know it, or whatever.

“Roberto,” Georgie calls out like a second later, but Robbie smells bacon, so he probably fell back asleep. “I’m eating all of it if you don’t get your ass out here.”

Robbie groans and gets out of bed, grabbing his boxers off the floor and shuffling into the living room, then the dining room when he sees it’s all set up, scrambled eggs and bacon, rye toast for Georgie and whole wheat for Robbie.

“Ketchup,” Robbie says.

“Seriously, so fucking lazy,” Georgie says, but goes and grabs it from the kitchen. “Don’t smother it with ketchup, tell me if it’s any good first.”

“It’s eggs, dude,” Robbie parrots at him, but they’re actually pretty good. Not like, no ketchup good, but eggs need ketchup. “You don’t fail, ‘grats,” Robbie tells him.

“Thanks,” Georgie says sarcastically, kicking his ankle under the table. “This is weird,” he says a minute later.

“Huh?” Robbie asks.

“Like, sitting at my dining room table in my own apartment,” Georgie says. “Day before training camp. With you.”

Robbie knows he got offers to billet or live with one of the older dudes. He doesn’t think it’s being arrogant or paranoid or whatever to figure Georgie turned them down basically for exactly this reason, that Robbie can come and stay whenever and there isn’t any no homo posturing or whatever. That they can play footsie in their underwear without anyone getting all uptight about the rookie and his boyfriend. That’s like. Also a lot to take in. But not in a bad way or anything.

“Why am I weird?” Robbie asks, scowling, then before Georgie can say anything. “Yeah, I know. It’s like. Adult.”

“It is,” Georgie says, looking kind of freaked out.

“Hey, no,” Robbie says, sliding out of his chair and circling the table to perch on Georgie’s thigh. He’s not even putting his weight on him, so he does not appreciate the ‘oof’ from Georgie. “Adult’s good.”

“Yeah?” Georgie asks.

“Yeah,” Robbie confirms, and leans down to catch Georgie’s mouth.

“Is making out while breakfast gets cold adult?” Georgie mumbles against his mouth awhile later.

“Uh huh,” Robbie mumbles back.

“Kay,” Georgie says, and gets his hands on his ass to pull him in for, like, the perfect angle to rub off against his thigh, which is…maybe kinda high school, but the point is that it’s in Georgie’s apartment, so obviously, like. Adult. Clearly.


	156. Jaya, Charlie, Adam; Olympians

Jaya’s never been more excited in her life. Never been more nervous, either, but she thinks the two have to be linked. If you’re excited, there has to be an element of risk involved, something to gain and something to lose. Nerves are natural.

“This is in the bag,” Charlie shouts.

She thinks the two have to be linked for everyone except for Charlie.

Except that’s not fair. This is Charlie being nervous. Charlie nervous is a lot like Charlie usually, except even more confident sounding and testier. For those who haven’t known her for ten years, though, she probably doesn’t seem nervous at all, especially compared to, say, Simone, who threw up twice in the past hour, or Caroline, who has been bemoaning her first breakout since she was a teenager, or, well. Jaya, who is trying to get her hands to stop shaking, because she can’t even fumble her gloves on right now, and every second elapsing feels like a countdown to when they’re taking the ice.

“J,” Charlie says, and grabs Jaya’s hands, which thankfully stills them. “This is Switzerland.”

“I know,” Jaya says.

“Worst case scenario we’re in the Quarters,” Charlie says. “Even if we lose every single game. Which you know we won’t.”

“I know how the brackets work,” Jaya says.

“In the bag,” Charlie says.

“Don’t be cocky,” Jaya says.

Charlie raises an eyebrow.

“That’s being cocky,” Jaya tells her, but she feels a little better, and her hands have stilled enough that she can get her gloves on.

*

They win the game 6-1. Simone immediately retreats once they get to the room to throw up again.

“You only let in one!” Charlie yells after her.

“Riley Lapointe,” Rousseau says.

“Yep?” Charlie asks.

“Not helpful,” Rousseau says.

“A lot better than six!” Charlie yells.

“Still not helpful,” Rousseau says. If Jaya didn’t know better, she’d think he was trying not to smile.

“But better?” Charlie tries.

Rousseau gives her a disappointed look.

“I’ll work on the pep talks,” Charlie says.

*

Finland’s not the rout Switzerland was, but it’s a shut out, which is better for Simone’s stomach.

“My vomit free shut out queen!” Charlie yells in French, then gives Simone a hug that lifts her off the ice.

“Was that meant to be better?” Rousseau asks Jaya once they’re back in the room, and when Jaya frowns, “Riley Lapointe’s pep talk.”

She guesses someone translated it for him. It’s probably only because he doesn’t speak French that he’s surprised by anything that ever comes out of Charlie’s mouth. Though, to be fair, sometimes Jaya still is. Sometimes Charlie is, gets a look on her face after she says it like she didn’t realise she was saying it until it was already out of her mouth. English is better. Charlie has to think about English before she says it. Hardly perfect, but better than her French or her fists.

“Yes,” Jaya says. “It was.”

“Did it sound better in French?” Rousseau asks.

Jaya shakes her head.

Rousseau sighs.

*

Jaya doesn’t want to be rude to Finland or Switzerland, and she of course respects all of her opponents, but she doesn’t think there’s a women in here that doesn’t take the game against Team USA the most seriously. Part of that is obvious: they’ve both won their previous match ups, and whoever takes first seed plays the weakest opponent in the semis, so the game’s important. 

Part of it is, Jaya will admit, personal. She’s played a lot of Team USA in tournaments before and there’s a saying that comes to mind: the more you get to know an opponent, the less you come to like them. Truer words. With a caveat, Jaya supposes, but that can’t even be in the back of her head right now. Not a blip. Jaya takes a deep breath, pushes it down.

There’s no ‘in the bag’ from Charlie before the game. She isn’t even the ball of nervous energy she usually is when she’s trying to pump herself up, get the room pumped up with her. She’s sitting beside Jaya, elbows on her knees, and she has a grim game face on, the kind of look she used to get before she went after someone.

“If you get thrown out for pulling someone’s hair again…” Jaya says.

“That was once,” Charlie says. “We were fourteen.”

Jaya serves her a look.

“Fine, dad,” Charlie says.

“Dan told you too, eh?” Jaya asks.

“And Leon,” Charlie mutters.

“Well,” Jaya says, and Charlie grabs her braid, tugs lightly.

“Get your violent urges out now,” Jaya says. Charlie tugs harder, still not enough to hurt, then releases Jaya’s braid to huddle closer to her.

“Hey,” Jaya says, then, in French because they’re surrounded by Anglos and Charlie wouldn’t want her impervious to fear cred undermined, “We have this, Char, I’ve got your back.”

“I know,” Charlie says, but she still looks a little better, having heard it. Jaya doesn’t make promises idly.

*

The game is tight defensively, a barrage of shots and shot blocks and borderline plays, the kind of dirty it only ever gets with the US. It’s 1-1 at the end of the first, the same at the end of the second, and Simone looks like she wants to die when they’re back in on the third. Jaya puts herself in front of everything she can see, defends the line, and it’s enough that when Caroline scores halfway through the second, they hold on tight and take the game.

It’s hardly over. They’re going to face Team USA once again in the Finals unless there’s a massive upset. Jaya can’t remember the last Gold Medal game that wasn’t Canada and the US facing off. It’s premature to think of it, of course. They’re both straight through to the Semis, but Jaya has to focus on the game ahead, not the one that follows. Potentially follows. Charlie’s ‘in the bag’ is clearly getting to her.

There’s a hum of celebration in the air, stands filled like they weren’t for the other two games, plenty of red and white in the crowd. The white is as likely Team USA as Team Canada jerseys, the same white Team USA’s wearing now, but there are enough Canadians to make noise enough that they’re shouting to each other on the ice. They’d probably be shouting regardless, but it gives them an excuse.

Jaya breaks out of the pack first, is one of the first in the handshake line, says and hears ‘good game’ so many times it just a blur of sound, meaningless, receives handshakes ranging from the limp and reluctant to firm, still feeling mostly the same. Most of the way down the line she takes Brianna’s hand, thinks there’ll be…something to distinguish it, maybe, but Brianna’s handshake is loose, head down, and she doesn’t look Jaya in the eye.

It’s not like Jaya thought she’d catch Brianna’s eye in the aftermath. If they’d been the losers, Jaya wouldn’t want to be making eye contact with anything but the ice, probably, certainly wouldn’t want to watch her opponents celebrating her team’s defeat, preliminary or not, so she can’t judge Brianna for doing the same. If circumstances were reversed she can’t confidently say her hand wouldn’t be limp, her head down.

Still, when she walks back into a raucous, joyful room, there’s a seed of disappointment in her that’s hard to shake.


	157. Robbie, Matthews; house arrest

Most of the time, Robbie’s pretty happy he lives alone. He tried the living with teammates thing last year, and it went pretty okay, but Robbie’s already done the living alone thing, or like, the college baby steps edition of it, he’s years older and obviously wiser than most of the guys in the same part of their career, so living on his own seems like the way to go. There’s a whole bunch of good reasons for it: he can bring a dude home without any awkward whoa homo side glances, which like…hasn’t been a huge issue since he doesn’t slut around and generally dudes have their own places, and if they have roommates, they’re not the ‘ah, gay’ squeamish type. But it could be an issue in the future, and it’s good to have his own space and stuff.

He’s not a good cook, but neither were the guys he lived with last year, so that’s not a big change. He has 100% control of the remote, can wander around as clothed or naked as he likes, and only God and his cleaning lady can judge the state of the place, which isn’t actually too bad, though it’s definitely harder to keep neat and tidy than a dorm room was.

So like, living alone. Robbie’s happy with it, with the independence, as happy as he was when he moved out to the dorms. There was one glaring exception to that time, which is when he was sick, but he went back to his parents’, let his mamma baby him, freshman year. Sophomore year he — someone else babied him. Whatever, Robbie’s not thinking about it. He’s not sick, either, hasn’t had so much as the sniffles since the offseason, and that was just stupid allergies. Robbie is a healthy, virile young man in the prime of his life, no illness is taking his spry ass down.

The stairs up to his place might right now though. Salt in the wound. Literally.

“Don’t you salt these?” Matty asks.

“They’re salted,” Robbie says.

“Not enough,” Matty says.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t expect to be coming home on crutches, my bad, Elliott,” Robbie says.

“Okay, hand on my shoulder,” Matty says.

“No fucking way am I letting you pick me up,” Robbie says. “No fucking way.”

“Yeah, because I want to throw out my back and end up on IR, stuck listening to you bitch,” Matty says. “Hand on my shoulder, lean your weight on me, use your only your left leg, keep your right up. I got you.”

“I’m not five,” Robbie says, but Matty’s a lot more stable and more likely to catch him than the ice cold banister, puts a hand in the small of Robbie’s back after the first weird step-hop up the stairs, supports him until they’re at Robbie’s front door and he can unlock it while Matty retrieves his crutches.

“You can’t go up and down those, they’re a fucking death trap,” Matty says, which, like. Yeah, probably not. Salted or not, they’re steep as fuck and just asking for Robbie to hurt himself worse.

“You putting me under house arrest, Matthews?” Robbie jokes. He shouldn’t have. He falls asleep in front of the TV like five minutes after he lies down, leg propped up, painkillers apparently knocking him out, and when he wakes up it’s morning. He hops around his apartment like the saddest most injured bunny, then realises when he’s laboriously changing into sweats that his keys aren’t in his pocket, where they absolutely should be.

“Matthews,” Robbie hisses, and pulls out his phone, where, as he could have expected, he has texts from Elliott, one saying _good idea on the house arrest,_ followed by _buying you groceries for your house arrest see you tomorrow_ , then, _this is for your own good and you know whoever you complain to is going to agree with me,_ which is the most irritating one of all, because he’s right and he fucking knows it. He even added a smiley to the end. The smiley’s mocking Robbie.

 _You are literally the worst friend in the world_ , Robbie texts, but hesitates before sending, because the Caps are leaving town for a roadie tomorrow, and the front door locks itself, which Matty fucking well knows, so either he leaves it propped open — it’s not a bad neighborhood, but no fucking way — or he’s stuck living on whatever’s in his fridge and delivery for the five days they’re out of town. Elliott is not a man to piss off right now. He has control of the groceries.

 _I hate you_ , Robbie sends after much deliberation. _Buy ice cream. I’m injured I deserve it_

Matty sends another smiley, presumably in response to the declaration of hatred, but his next text is an ice cream cone emoji followed by a thumbs up, so Robbie will let it slide, he guesses.


	158. Mike/Liam; outside POV

Liam is one of the gentlest people Lori’s ever known. Mike would laugh if she said that to him, would have a whole list of examples of when he was the furthest thing from gentle on the ice. He takes pride in that, Lori thinks, those moments when Liam isn’t. Makes him feel better about the fact he isn’t.

Mike never has been, really, not even as a boy. He wasn’t angry then like he was when he got older, after Pete left, like he still is now, an anger so deep Lori doesn’t have the first idea how to fix it, if it even could be fixed. But she still remembers him at eight, looking proud of himself when her and Pete got to the principal’s office, starting to grin when the principal told him that he’d given two boys bloody noses. They’d been picking on Tom, that she knows, and that was Mike’s excuse. He’s always been protective of the people he loves, and he made it a career, team instead of love, still bloodying other boys’ noses.

She hadn’t disapproved as much as she should have, she knows that now. When he got drafted it was a blessing, when he sent his first paycheck to her it was a weight off her chest. It was rent, car insurance, food. It was Tom getting to wear something other than Mike’s hand me downs for once. It was such a relief.

She doesn’t know if it’d still have been a relief if she knew what was going to come. Probably not, but maybe, and she feels guilty for that thought every day. It’s just that Mike made everything so much easier for her and Tom. Didn’t know how hard he’d make it on himself, later. Would have done the same thing either way, she bets, but that isn’t much comfort to her.

Liam’s the kind of boy you just know got everything he wanted when he was growing up. Lori doesn’t mean it as an insult, you can just tell. Got everything he wanted, and he wanted Mike and got that too, and it’s breaking his heart that he doesn’t get to keep him. Not in the way of a kid who’s told he can’t have something. Maybe it would have been once, but it’s not like that now. It’s just a broken heart.

Liam loves him so clearly, so much it breaks Lori’s heart for him. It breaks Mike’s too, she thinks. Liam’s love is so bright, impossible to miss. He follows Mike wherever he goes — if Mike leaves the room, Liam’s eyes follow him, track where he goes. Watches him all the time like he’s trying to memorize him. Lori does that sometimes with Sam, knows that she’ll blink and he’ll shoot up a foot, so she tries to hold onto the boy he is right now, because she didn’t do that well enough with Mike and Tom, was working so much sometimes she thinks she missed their entire childhoods. She doesn’t want to do that with Sam. Wants to savor it. Tom says she dotes on him too much, but she can’t help it. He’s such a sweet boy, as sweet as Amber is, gentle as Liam. Her boys fell in love with soft, lovely people, and she’s grateful every day for that.

Liam watches Mike like he’s going to up and disappear when he blinks. Like Lori said, it breaks her fucking heart.

*

Mike doesn’t come up as much as Lori would like, not that she blames him. She knows the drive’s hard now, schedule worse, and most of the year she goes down to St. Paul, gets some errands done while she’s there. During the summer it’s a little easier, especially for the stretches Liam’s still in Minnesota, can do the driving, and Lori loves these summer evenings, even if she hates the heat.

It’s too hot outside for Lori to get any pleasure from it, and she volunteers to make the salad so she can stay in the relative cool of the kitchen. Liam’s a sweet boy, and he sticks with her inside, rinsing vegetables with her, companionable, standing shoulder to shoulder at the sink.

Sam’s watching some Disney movie in the living room, one Lori’s already seen half a dozen times, knows Tom and Amber have been stuck with at least a hundred. Doesn’t get sick of anything, that kid. Has his favorites, loves them to shreds. Typical Brouwer trait. Lori’s still got a stuffed dog of Mike’s in her closet, all battered from how hard he loved the thing up until he figured he was too old for it. She doesn’t tell Mike she still has it, because she’s sure he’d be embarrassed, tell her to get rid of it, and she doesn’t want to. She loves that stupid dog too.

Mike’s out back with Tom and Amber, the boys arguing loudly enough about how to grill burgers properly that she can hear them clear through the open window, Mike, then Tom, then Amber, quieter, trying to get them to stop being asses. Lori wishes her the best of luck. She’s long since quit trying.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Liam says, so quiet she almost misses it over the water.

She looks at him.

“I don’t know how to deal with it,” Liam says, and Lori knows exactly what he means.

He’s so young, that boy. Younger than Mike was when he met him. Lori didn’t approve, didn’t like her son being a cradle robber, but now she can’t imagine Mike with anyone else. Doesn’t think she has to.

“It’s like knowing the future. Knowing that the future sucks and you can’t change it,” Liam says.

Lori turns off the sink. “Honey,” Lori says.

“Sorry,” Liam says.

“You don’t have to say sorry,” Lori says. “Not to me. Not about that.”

“Okay,” Liam says, voice wavering like he’s on the edge of tears.

“Come on,” she says. “The boys can make the salad, lord knows Mike’s just going to insult our hard work anyway. You and me are having a beer and relaxing.”

It’s still hot on the front porch, but at least there’s shade enough. Lori sent Sam out back, despite his protests, and hopefully that’ll put an end to Mike and Tom’s bickering. Shut them up some at least.

Liam’s looking at his beer like it’s got the answer to every question in the universe in it.

“Helps if you drink it,” Lori says, and Liam huffs out a laugh, takes a sip.

She keeps quiet, drinks her beer. She can see Liam trying to pull himself together, and she knows she’ll only make it worse if she says something right now. Nothing helps. She knows that well enough.

Once they’re down to nursing the dregs Liam looks like he’s okay, or, not okay. She knows he isn’t. Like he’s put the okay face on, though. Might be enough to fool Mike, might not. Mike’s a smart boy, but she can never tell how smart he is, really. The kind of smart that’s stupid. He’s stupid about Liam in more ways than one.

“He loves you,” Lori says, not as comfort or anything, just because Mike’s stupid, and Liam’s hurting, and it’s something he deserves to hear. “I know he doesn’t say it.”

Liam smiles a little. “How do you know he doesn’t?” he asks.

“He’s a stubborn ass,” Lori says, and Liam laughs, a little choked sounding.

“Yeah,” he says.

“He loves you so hard,” Lori says. “I need you to know that, okay?”

“I know,” Liam says. “I know he does.”

“Well,” she says. “Good.”


	159. Gabe, Petersens; group hug

Gabe looks kind of cranky when he decides to skip a review session and just study at home. Maybe Stephen should have been suspicious then.

“You’re always telling me I know it cold,” Stephen says.

“I never get a proper nap when you’re home,” Gabe complains, which cuts off any potential suspicions, because, well. That was probably true. It’s not Stephen’s fault Gabe is a stupidly light sleeper, but he has a point.

The doorbell rings about half an hour after Gabe sacks out on the couch. Stephen isn’t really expecting anyone, but if Gabe has to get up and get the door he’s going to be extra cranky and will absolutely use it half-jokingly as an excuse for any poor game performance that follows. It’s easier to get the door, deal with a package or sales or politics, than prove Gabe absolutely correct in his complaints.

There are two blonde children on his doorstep. They are not supposed to be here.

“Don’t close the door on us, you asshole!” Beth yells as he lets it swing shut. “I’ll tell mom!”

Stephen pulls the door open, more so she quits yelling than the threat of mom. Kind of. “What the fu—hell are you doing here?” he asks.

“I’m twelve, not five,” Anna says. “I know fuck.”

“Language,” Stephen says automatically.

“Du lyder som far,” Beth says snidely.

“Fu—hell off,” Stephen says.

“Nice save,” Anna tells him.

“Thanks,” Stephen says. “Why are you here?”

“It’s cold in Toronto,” Beth tells him. “It was like minus ten when we left. At least it feels like spring here. Kind of.”

“You’re — really?” Stephen says. “You don’t think, ‘hey, Cuba’s nice in March’, you think Vancouver?”

“Vancouver was free,” Beth says.

“What, mom and dad wanted to offload you guys that bad?” Stephen asks.

“Rude,” Beth says, rolling her eyes, but Stephen catches Anna’s eyes darting guiltily. She’s always the weakest link.

“Gabriel,” Stephen yells.

“I’m napping,” Gabe yells back from the living room. “You know I’m napping!”

“Gabriel, come out here right now,” Stephen yells. Gabe’s scowling when he comes into the hall but it slips to a hybrid of a grin and a smirk when he sees the girls on the porch, which confirms what Stephen figured.

“Anna! Elisabeth!” Gabe says, overselling it. “What a surprise!”

“Right?” Anna says loudly, overselling it harder than Gabe, and Beth snorts.

“I told you I’d pick you up,” Gabe says, dropping the pretense.

“We got in early,” Beth says. “And mom gave us cab fare and told us not to make you drive out on game day, so it’s whatever.”

“What a surprise,” Stephen says pointedly.

“Happy really early birthday?” Gabe says.

“You gave me my _sisters_?” Stephen says. “Take them back, I don’t want them.”

“Hey,” Anna says, frowning, while Beth just rolls her eyes again. It’s just what Stephen wanted, teenage girls.

“Happy really early birthday to me?” Gabe says.

“Aww,” Anna says.

“You can’t give yourself birthday presents, it defeats the entire purpose,” Beth says.

“Sure I can,” Gabe says, then, “Stephen, let them come inside already.”

“No,” Stephen says, and braces himself just in time to maintain his footing when Gabe grabs him around the waist from behind and tries to drag him backwards. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“ _Gabe’s_ being ridiculous?” Beth says, giving him a look she clearly learned from dad.

“Du ligner far,” Stephen tells her.

“Eat a dick,” she responds.

“Gabe!” Stephen says, turning to glare at him for inviting these assholes.

“I mean,” Gabe says “As long as it’s—”

“Gabe!” Anna shrieks, and then immediately puts her hands over her ears.

“You’re twelve, not five,” Beth says, and this time Stephen shares an eye roll with her.

Gabe’s given up on dragging him in, has settled with his hand loosely tucked around Stephen’s waist, digs into Stephen’s shoulder with his chin. “I love you guys,” he says. “Group hug?”

“No,” Stephen says.

“I hate these guys, but I’ll hug you,” Beth says. “I guess.”

“Dibs,” Anna shouts, ducking under Stephen’s arm and catching Gabe around the middle. Gabe lets go of Stephen to wrap an arm around her, holds out his other for Beth, who daintily elbows Stephen out of her way to get to Gabe.

Gabe looks smug. It’s not a good look.

Actually it’s a very good look, which is especially irritating.

“Group hug?” Gabe says again.

“Ass,” Stephen says under his breath, and endures another elbow from Beth when he joins the stupid Petersen (and Markson) pile.


	160. David, Robbie; meeting Stanley

Robbie’s never been to the Hockey Hall of Fame. This is something David learns only at team breakfast before a game in Toronto.

“Seriously?” David asks.

Robbie shrugs. “We got time to go there?” he asks.

“It’s a two minute walk from here,” David says.

“ _Seriously_?” Robbie says. “Okay, awesome, we’re doing this, let’s go visit our baby.”

“What baby?” David asks, but Robbie’s shoveling food into his mouth double time and doesn’t answer.

At just past opening on a week day, the place is quiet. Tourists milling around, mostly, and David pulls his toque down over his ears, hopes no one notices him.

“Beanie inside, real subtle,” Robbie snorts. 

David goes straight to the little corner he’s been visiting since he was a child. The display’s moved, over the years, but it always seems to be in a corner. It’s changed since he was last there — along with the picture of Konstantinovich with his HHOF ring, there’s another of him at the number retiring ceremony, 11 up in the rafters.

“Back away from the Russian, Kurmazov Jr.,” Robbie says. “We’ve got a Cup to visit.”

David’s been here a half dozen times, but it’s always been in summer. During the summers, the Cup’s a reproduction, the real Cup traveling the globe to visit the winners. As a child, David had resented them for taking away his opportunity to see it. As an adult the resentment’s a little different: every year is a year he hasn’t won it.

The replica looks identical. Every name etched into the Cup is etched into the replica, and David had lingered there until he was asked to leave, searching for the names he wanted to see. Still, it’s a far away different thing to see it than to see the Stanley Cup. The line to touch the Cup isn’t particularly long since it’s near the exit, and Robbie heads straight for it. “What are you doing?” David asks, and Robbie gives him a sarcastic look. 

“Don’t you want to wait until you win it to touch it?” David asks.

“Nope,” Robbie says. “I’m going to go tell Stanley to wait for me.”

David doesn’t get in line, skirts the Calder and walks to the Art Ross, touching his fingers against the glass over his name, etched deep.

“Chaps you come here and touch Stanley with me,” Robbie yells, and now everyone’s looking at him. Looking at him staring at his own name. He steps away before someone can get a picture of that. He’s sure the media would love it.

“Go ahead,” the attendant says with a grin when David comes up to the stanchion, pulls the ribbon up so he can duck under. 

“Everyone’s taking pictures,” David hisses at Robbie.

“We’re in a museum, it’s what you do,” Robbie says. David thinks he’s being purposefully oblivious. “They said we can pick it up if we’re careful. You know, since we’re probably going to be holding it at the end of the season. I asked.”

David highly doubts they said that, at least the end of the season thing, but Robbie’s not lying about the permission. “I’m not picking it up,” David says, but when Robbie goes to hoist it, David reaches out, making sure it’s steady in his grip. He knows it’s only thirty-five pounds, that Robbie won’t have any difficulty, but he can’t imagine — ‘Washington Capitals Lombardi and Chapman Break Stanley Cup’ would be a terrible headline.

“Hi baby,” Robbie coos. “You’re going to see us again real soon, I promise.”

“Don’t jinx it,” David hisses at him. The metal warms under his palms, and objectively he knows it’s body heat, but it still feels like some kind of sign.

“Real soon,” Robbie repeats. In his head, David promises the same.


	161. Mike/Liam; Player's Tribune Article

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for major character death.

When I was eighteen years old, I fell in love for the first time and only time. It was with a man, which you might think is the point of this article, but isn’t. With a fellow player, which was, and still is, controversial. With an enforcer, when that was still a indispensable part of every team. When they were there to take hits and throw hits and protect their team. When an enforcer was, as so many joked, a fighter on skates, not a hockey player.

We’re getting closer now.

When I was eighteen I fell in love with a man, a fellow player, an enforcer.

When Mike Brouwer died earlier this year, it was a minor news story in every market he played in. A sobering reminder to those he played with, and I can’t count how many messages I received from NHL players, former and current, upon hearing the news of his death. From friends and former teammates, from members of the Oilers organization, past and present, from the President down to the team doctor, who told me he still felt guilty, decades later. I told him Mike would have told him to get the fuck over himself, and weirdly I think we both felt better after that. Mike had that kind of effect.

Mike retired at 32, to little interest. He’d played his part, he’d done his job, it was time. Very few people knew that he retired as a result of post-concussion symptoms that followed him throughout his final year in Edmonton. That made it impossible to play and also impossible to live a normal life.

He developed chronic migraines he’d suffer for the rest of his life. Before the age of forty, he developed a tremor in his hands, initially only there when he was stressed or trying to do something that required concentration. Eventually any fine-motor tasks were literally out of his hands. He was on an endless list of medication that was constantly adjusted, and no matter how much they fiddled with it, the side-effects were always terrible. Nausea. Sensitivity to light. Dizziness, fatigue, numbness, hypersensitivity, low blood pressure, high blood pressure, depression, mood swings. You name it, he dealt with it at some point.  

I know all of this because I was there for it. First from a distance, then, after I signed with the North Stars, because I lived with him, and did until his death, am writing this in a stupid, empty house I loved until he wasn’t in it. It’s probably not hard to read between the lines. There’s no such thing as common-law marriage in Minnesota, and the word ‘marriage’ would get Mike skittish as anything, but fuck it, Mike can’t argue: we were married in everything but name. Til death do you part.

That’s not really common knowledge. Mike has always been a private person, and at the idea of anyone beyond our friends and family knowing about his life, especially our relationship his response was, ‘it’s no one’s fucking business’. And it wasn’t. But it is now.

I spoke to him, in the final months, about whether I could talk about him. After, I said. I didn’t say the word death. I’d known for years it was coming, but I still couldn’t say it, and writing it even now is horrible. I always thought I was brave, but the idea of him dying had me scared shitless. I knew he didn’t like talking about it — about us, specifically. It wasn’t something I took personally, especially after almost twenty years. It was no one’s fucking business but ours. I got that.

“I’ll be dead,” he said. He didn’t have the same problem saying the word. “The fuck right do I have, telling you what to do? Knock yourself out.”

Bad choice of words, considering.


	162. Jake POV, NHL Awards

Like five minutes before the Awards are set to start, the doorbell rings. Jake would ignore it, but mom and dad are out of town on a winery tour in Niagara that Jake bought them as an anniversary present, and there are at least a half dozen people Jake knows that would swing by the house without letting anyone know first, and every single one of them would see his car in the driveway and the light from the front hall and keep on ringing the doorbell until he answered, so he doesn’t have much of a choice.

The doorbell rings again. “Okay,” Jake calls once he reaches the hallway, opens it to find Allie and Nat on the porch.

“We came to keep you from getting lonely,” Nat says.

“I kind of have plans already,” Jake says. “So.”

“The Awards start yet?” Nat asks.

“No,” Jake says. “I mean —”

“Like we were just going to let you sit home alone and self-flagellate,” Allie says, shoving the bag of take-out into Nat’s hands and then walking in like she still lives there. 

“I’m not – whatever that is,” Jake says. “And I’m seriously busy, guys.”

“Who’s that with David on the red carpet?” Allie calls from the living room, and Jake’s already halfway down the hall when he hears Nat say ‘busted’, sounding super smug.

“He’s cute,” Allie says, already sitting on her usual spot on the couch. “He David’s boyfriend?”

“No,” Jake snaps, then watching David swat at Volkov, “I don’t know.”

“Whoa, okay,” Allie says, then, louder, “Nat, beer and sushi are required.”

“On it!” Nat calls out from the kitchen.

“Don’t you guys have work tomorrow?” Jake asks.

“It’s eight,” Allie says. “I think we can make it home before our bed times. Stop trying to kick us out.”

“I’m not trying to kick you out,” Jake argues.

“Uh huh,” Allie says. “Who’s the guy with David?”

“Volkov,” Jake says. “He’s…whatever.”

“He’s whatever,” Allie says in this voice that means Jake’s in for a conversation he really doesn’t want.

“Allie, help?” Nat calls, and immediately becomes his favorite sister.

Jake eats the sushi they bring out, since they got it from the place he really likes and dinner was hours ago, but leaves the beer to sweat on the side table, and ends up giving it to Nat when she finishes hers, pays half-attention to the opening stuff. The host is a comedian Jake usually finds pretty funny, but either he’s off tonight or Jake is, because none of the jokes stick the landing.

“How are things with Becca?” Nat asks during a commercial break, and Jake can’t avoid the wince.

“It’s rude to talk about a guy’s girlfriend when he’s moping at his ex-boyfriend on TV,” Allie says. “Come on, Nat.”

“I’m allowed to watch the Awards without it being about David, okay?” Jake says.

“Sure,” Allie says. “You’re not, but it’s totally possible.”

Jake reaches for a dynamite roll, shoves it in his mouth before she can bait him. He almost ends up choking on it when Nat and Allie boo the Selke winner, presumably because he got into a fight with Jake toward the end of the season. He took the brunt of it, and Jake’s got no hard feelings, but apparently Nat and Allie don’t agree.

They talk through the Awards, don’t try to get Jake to join in after the first couple times, but both of them go quiet before the Art Ross presentation, which Jake’s thankful for.

David’s speech is — Jake wouldn’t have really expected it from him. It’s funny, for one — Nat snorts once and it doesn’t sound mocking. Maybe because Volkov wrote the jokes, like David said. The amount of trust there, to let someone else write his speech, it’s —

Jake doesn’t want to think about it, shoves it out his head, and can’t help a startled laugh when David calls his trainer a sadist.

“And to Jake Lourdes,” David says.

“Whoa, what,” Allie says. “Did he—”

“Shut up,” Jake snaps, and thankfully she does before he can miss the rest of David’s speech.

“For always challenging me to be better. Thank you,” David says, and he’s leaving the stage before the words even sink in properly.

“He’s a lot nicer to you this year’s Awards,” Nat says.

“Don’t,” Jake says. “Okay, Natalie?”

“Fine,” Nat says, and doesn’t say anything. They’re watching the Windsor broadcast, and a Canadian Tire commercial comes on, starring the captain of the Canucks. Jake likes that guy. Gabe says he’s the best and the couple times Jake’s met him he’s been super cool.

“You okay?” Nat asks.

“I genuinely have no idea,” Jake says honestly.

“You want us to stay or go, bud?” Allie asks.

“Um,” Jake says.

“You know, you take a minute, we’ll be in the kitchen if you need us,” Allie says, getting up.

“Ow, hey,” Nat says.

“We’ll _be in the kitchen_ , Natalie,” Allie says.

“Okay,” Jake says. “Um. Sorry I told you to shut up.”

“It’s cool,” Allie says. “Extenuating circumstances.”

“Right,” Jake says.

Allie and Nat leave, at least Jake thinks so. He’s not really paying attention. He keeps staring at the TV, but he’s not really paying attention to that either. He has all this nervous energy suddenly, like he needs to get up and do something, but he doesn’t know what, and in the end he just takes out his phone, pulls up his text string with David. David didn’t mention he was going to say anything, but then, he wouldn’t.

_you make me better too,_ Jake writes, then stares at it. It’s true, but it feels like not enough or something. David said it in front of — fuck, David said it in front of a room of their peers, everyone watching it on TV. It’s so unlike him that if Jake hadn’t seen it himself there’s no way he would have believed it. He still kind of doesn’t. He looks down at the text, _you make me better too_ , still doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t — he needs to send it. If he knows David — and he does know David, not knowing that was coming doesn’t mean he doesn’t, he didn’t think it would come because he knows David. He knows David, and he knows he’s probably already double and triple-thinking things.

Looks at it one last time. It isn’t right, isn’t enough. Adds a heart, which literally everyone he knows would laugh at him for, but maybe not David. He shouldn’t send it, they’re really not like…Jake shouldn’t be sending him freaking texts with hearts at the end, but it looks right, and it feels right, so. He presses send.


	163. Robbie, Caps; Rookie in the middle

Considering Robbie and Matty’s room is the location of the epic ‘dudes too young/not in the mood to drink their faces to celebrate clinching a playoff spot Mario Kart Epic Tourney’ (TM Robbie Lombardi), it’s fucking bullshit how it turns out.

First there’s coordinating. There’s a surprising amount of guys who are legal but chose not to go out, maybe because they’re all running half on fumes. Robbie’s like 95% sure Mikko’s playing hurt right now, and 100% sure that calling him out on it would be a fucking terrible idea. Definitely none of them are 100%, and while Robbie could go out, honestly chilling with the other rookies and some of the older mellow dudes sounds better than getting wasted in fucking Cleveland. Like, super great poetic irony to clinch here of all fucking places, but Robbie’s not leaving his room until they leave this godforsaken city. Seems safest. Locking door and everything.

“Shifts?” Robbie asks. “Two sets of four, seeding for match-ups of two after?”

“Works for me,” Wheels says.

“There’s nine of us, though,” Quincy says. “So sets of three, top two of each move on?”

“That’ll take forever,” Robbie complains. “Next thing you know it’ll be three in the morning and half you losers will still be in my room.”

“So someone bows out,” Quincy says. “Rock paper scissors?”

“Petition to make Robbie referee,” Matty says, raising a hand. “All in favor, say aye.”

Robbie doesn’t know how many ayes that gets, but it sounds like a lot, because his teammates are all assholes.

“Petition to make me not referee,” Robbie argues. “Quincy’s captain, why isn’t Quincy referee?”

“Quincy’s bad at Mario Kart,” Crane says. “I want to keep him.”

“Hey,” Quincy says, but mildly.

“This is stupid,” Robbie says. “Three guys aren’t even here yet, kick one of them.”

“That’s rude,” Crane says.

“You’re rude,” Robbie retorts.

“Petition to kick Robbie because he’s always a sore loser?” Wheels says through a yawn.

“Granted,” Quincy says.

“Quincy,” Robbie complains.

“Well,” Quincy says. “You kind of are one.”

“Everyone here’s a sore loser!” Robbie says. “We’re hockey players!”

“Quincy isn’t,” Matty says, and Robbie kicks him in the shin for brown-nosing.

“He’s just got a lot of practice at it,” Crane says.

“Hey,” Quincy repeats, still sounding unruffled.

“Crane’s the sorest loser out of any of us,” Robbie says. “So.”

“You want to kick Craney out?” Matty asks him skeptically.

Crane turns to look at him. His eyes are…disquieting. Robbie’s made a lot of mistakes in his life, but getting on the wrong side of his goalie is not one he ever plans on making. Not even once.

“No that’s fine,” Robbie says quickly.

“Thought so,” Matty says smugly, and Robbie kicks him again, squawking when Matty grabs his ankle and pulls him off the bed. He lands hard between their beds, considers himself lucky he didn’t brain himself on the table.

“Ow,” Robbie says. “My fucking tailbone, Elliott.”

“Stop injuring each other,” Quincy says. “I go to coach and say you morons got hurt playing Mario Kart, he’s going to shit a brick.”

“He deserved it,” Matty says.

“I repeat, motherfucking _ow_ , Elliott,” Robbie says. Considers kicking up at him, but that just seems like it’d end in more pain.

“Even if he deserved it,” Quincy says.

“Motherfucking ow, _betrayal_ , Captain Q,” Robbie says. “My feelings hurt.”

Quincy leans down and pats him on the head. Patronizing asshole.

“Start Round One while Robbie’s on the floor and can’t stop us?” Mikko asks.

“Sounds good,” Quincy says. “Matty, restrain him.”

“How is this not injuring me?” Robbie cries out when Matty scoots off the bed and immediately plops his fat ass on Robbie’s chest. “This is poor leadership! I’m lodging a complaint with management! Let me speak to a General Manager!”

“Want me to muzzle him too?” Matty asks.

“Go for it,” Quincy says.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Robbie says when Matty reaches a hand out. “I will bite you.”

“Used to it,” Matty says.

“Don’t need to know what you two get up to in here, rookies,” Quincy says. “Plausible deniability, please.”

“Mikko, the Canadians are attacking!” Robbie says. “Rally with me! Don’t let the majority bully the little guy!”

“I’m with the Canadians,” Mikko says. “Muzzle him, Matty.”

“Yep,” Matty says, and puts his hand over Robbie’s mouth.

Robbie narrows his eyes.

“You bite I’m going to knee you in the dick,” Matty says. “Just so you know.”

After sharing a room with Matty for most of a season, Robbie is pretty sure he’s not the kneeing the in the dick kind of guy? Like, for fuck’s sakes, he’s from Saskatchewan. But then, so is Crane, and Crane would 100% knee a dude in the dick, so. Robbie isn’t going to put his dick on the line for a theory.

Licking’s fine though.

“Eww, Quincy, Bardi licked me!” Matty says.

“I don’t even have kids, why am I hearing this shit,” Quincy says.

“I do,” Mikko says. “But my girls don’t pull this shit.”

“Rookies,” Quincy sighs.

“Rookies,” Mikko agrees.

Robbie taps Matty’s hand, and Matty removes it. “Jump the old fuckers?” he whispers.

“Gotcha,” Matty whispers back, and rolls off Robbie so they can coordinate their attack.


	164. David/Kiro; Married in Vegas AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Fic Summaries Challenge winner: "At 22, David Chapman wins the Art Ross, gets drunk, and gets married. In Vegas. With his best friend. Pairing: David Chapman/Kirill Volkov Tags: friends to lovers, woke up married, mutual pining, light angst with a happy ending, alcohol and bad decisions, but actually good decisions though, this fic needed to exist and you’re all very welcome, married sex"

David wakes up feeling worse than he ever has in his entire life, and that includes broken bones and losing to Team USA in Juniors. Feeling awful is immediately upgraded to terrified when he realises there’s someone in bed beside him. His heartbeat slows slightly when he recognises Kiro from the tousled brown hair and smattering of moles on the back of his neck, but the relief is quickly undercut by the fact the blanket’s low enough that David can tell Kiro’s not wearing anything, and a quick check confirms that David isn’t either.

The worst sort of underlining of this point is that David doesn’t remember last night. Or — obviously he remembers last night, he won the Art Ross, of course he remembers that, and he remembers Kiro taking him out to celebrate, but at some point things get fuzzy, and after that they get dark, and David would like to say that he didn’t have sex with his best friend last night, but honestly, he doesn’t know.

David gets out of bed as steathily as possible. He’s mortified to find his underwear on the floor, and he pulls them on, locks himself in the bathroom. He splashes water on his face, and that’s the first time he notices the ring, a plain gold band he’s never seen in his life, sitting on his left ring finger.

“What,” David says flatly.

He goes back into the suite with a sinking feeling. Kiro’s sleeping on his right side, so it’s quickly confirmed by the fact that he’s wearing a ring that looks identical.

“What,” David says again, and that gets Kiro stirring, rolling over in David’s direction and smiling, like it’s automatic, before grimacing, like he feels as awful as David does.

“How much do you remember?” David demands.

“What?” Kiro asks, voice raspy, wincing after he speaks.

“Last night,” David says.

Kiro frowns again, but it seems more like a concentrating one than a pained one. “Hey, Art Ross winner,” Kiro says.

“Focus,” David says.

“Grumpy with a hangover,” Kiro mutters. “We went out.”

“Do you remember getting back?” David asks.

“No,” Kiro says. “Big night, fun night.”

“What’s that on your hand?” David asks.

Kiro looks down at his right hand. “Other hand,” David says impatiently.

“Nice ring,” Kiro says. “You get it for me?”

“I don’t remember,” David says. “I’m wearing one too.”

“You think—” Kiro asks, face suddenly going slack.

“I don’t know,” David says, then starts going through their discarded clothing, face burning, because he’s never slept nude beside someone in his entire life, and that’s the best case, most chaste scenario.

He finds evidence in Kiro’s suit jacket. He’s not sure that’s a good thing, since it’s confirmation of his worst fears since he looked down at his hand to find an unfamiliar ring upon it.

“Do you remember getting married?” David asks slightly hysterically.

“I think I would remember getting married,” Kiro says.

“Apparently not,” David says, waving the paper for emphasis.

“Is that—” Kiro asks.

“Yes,” David says.

“Are you joking?” Kiro asks, then before David can answer, “Never mind, not a joker.”

“Hey,” David says.

“Are you, then?” Kiro challenges.

“No,” David says.

“Give,” Kiro says, and David passes the paper to him, cheeks flushing when Kiro sits up to read it and it becomes even more evident he slept as nude as David did. “Huh,” Kiro says eventually.

“Huh?” David prompts.

“Hi, husband,” Kiro says, and David is not responsible for the hysterical laughter that comes out of his mouth in response.


	165. Seb/Simon; Seb vetting romantic partners

Like most things Seb related, this is Audrey’s fault. Well, that isn’t fair. Most Seb related things as Seb’s fault, but Audrey has zero compunctions with egging him on, feeding him insider information, and generally giving Simon a headache. She’s lucky he loves her.

He’s been at work for approximately five minutes when he gets his first call, picks it up without looking. It’s two hours before opening, but if he ignores it, it’ll annoy him, and a lot of people know he comes in early, so it could be important.

“Who’s _Devon_?” Seb says.

“Audrey,” Simon sighs.

“Very helpful assistant,” Seb says, which Simon would not currently agree with.

“Gossiping with clients isn’t in her job description,” Simon says dryly.

“But I’m not just a client, I’m family,” Seb says.

“Still not in her job description,” Simon says, then, “Jesus, Seb, aren’t you in California?”

“Yes?” Seb says.

“What time is it there,” Simon says flatly.

“Um,” Seb says. “Not…too late.”

“If you don’t think I am capable of subtracting four from seven, I am very concerned that you were willing for me to be your accountant,” Simon says.

“It was a big win,” Seb says defensively. “I scored two.”

“If you’re about to ask me if I saw them, I would like to remind you that the game started at eleven,” Simon says. “I’ll look at the replay later.”

“Thanks buddy,” Seb says, warm. “Why did I call?”

“I have no idea,” Simon says. “I have to catch up on work. Go to bed.”

“Okay,” Seb says through a yawn, and Simon figures that’ll buy him at least until this evening.

_You are a traitor_ , Simon texts Audrey. There’s no way she’s awake yet, but it is exactly what she should be waking up to, because she’s doing it on _purpose_ now.

Simon doesn’t see the point in discussing his romantic life with Seb. For one, Seb is the least judgmental person Simon knows right up until someone he cares about is dating someone, when he becomes possibly the most judgmental person Simon knows, who repeats ‘you deserve better’ with such regularity Simon mouths it along with him, from the admittedly dire warning sign of constantly flaking out on dates at the last minute, to the much more minor not responding to texts quickly. Simon’s long since stopped telling him details of his relationships, which, of course, means Seb is now concerned about _that_. It’s a lose-lose situation.

Seb, on the other hand, is enjoying the ‘unspeakably talented millionaire hockey star’ life, with its additional perks of an endless succession of incredibly beautiful people. This Simon gleans from Audrey as well when she’s bored and procrastinating by stalking Seb’s instagram, which happens far too often.

Audrey really is a terrible assistant. She is _truly_ lucky Simon loves her.

“You told me you didn’t know why I called you,” Seb says accusingly when Simon picks up his phone about three steps from his front door. He has impeccably annoying timing.

“I wasn’t lying either,” Simon says, rooting for his keys.

“You were not truthing,” Seb says.

“Not a word, Seb,” Simon says.

“Audrey tells me he’s an auditor,” Seb says. “An auditor, Si? Really?”

“What do you think an auditor is, Seb?” Simon asks.

“Super boring,” Seb says.

“An auditor is an _accountant_ , Sebastien,” Simon says.

“So…a rich and exciting field for an excellent person?” Seb tries.

Simon blows out a breath, unlocks his door. “Nice try, little late,” he says.

“Sorry,” Seb says. “Tell me about him?”

“Nope,” Simon says.

“I’ll just ask Audrey,” Seb threatens.

“Maybe I’ll stop telling her anything,” Simon says.

“You wouldn’t,” Seb says.

“I might,” Simon threatens.

“Fine,” Seb says, and Simon can hear his pout right through the phone.

“Six points in California,” Simon says.

“You’re changing the subject,” Seb says.

“Yes,” Simon says.

“Did you see the replays?” Seb says, distracted despite himself. He’s good like that.

“Yes, Seb,” Simon says. “I saw the replays.”

“You’re the best,” Seb says, then, “Devon’s a stupid name. Don’t tell me he’s an Anglo.”

“Goodbye, Seb,” Simon says, and hangs up before Seb can argue.


	166. Zach MacDonald/Elias Koskinen; rein it in

It’s an ugly fucking hit.

Zach doesn’t see it. He hears it, that solid noise against the boards that means someone landed a big one. You can land those clean, and when he watches the replays after, he can’t even say it was illegal or anything, just the unfortunate combination of speed, size, and the fact that Koskinen had his head down, eyes on the puck, and didn’t see him coming.

So first he hears it, eyes flicking back, instinct, and that view’s — unpleasant. You never want to see a guy in the position Koskinen is, face down on the ice, arms loose in the way that means he didn’t try to break his fall, which means he’s probably unconscious. Zach’s two strides away from grabbing the sweater of the guy who hit him, the Kings goon standing over him dumbfounded, hands up like fucking ‘who me, did I knock this guy out? Couldn’t have been me’.

Carlyle gets there first, gloves dropped before Zach can blink. Carly’s no fighter, but if the mitts are off the mitts are off, and if Zach goes in now he’s looking at trouble, so last second he changes direction, drops to his knees beside Koskinen.

He’s conscious now, thank fuck, must’ve had that ‘blink and suddenly wake up face first on the ice, what the fuck’ moment that Zach had once, and can’t really recommend.

“You okay, Koskinen?” Zach asks, and Koskinen frowns at him then grimaces in a way that doesn’t look good at all, skin sheet white and eyes not looking right, dazed and far off.

The linesman’s busy breaking up the fight, so it’s Zach that’s stuck yelling “Can someone get the fucking trainer out here?” because what the fuck, where the fuck is he?

The trainer gets there eventually, and Zach’s stuck standing around, impotent, as they check him out and then they get out the backboard, strap Koskinen in. The trainer’s talking him through it, asking questions, but he’s not answering them, is looking straight at him but not like…at him, more like through him, eyes unfocused, a hazy, dizzy grey.

Goodman (yeah, ironic fucking name) gets five for fighting, since he more than defended himself, left Carly with a bloody nose and fury, but there isn’t anything else called on the play. Later Zach will watch the hit, admit it’s the right call, that it wasn’t malicious. Accidents happen.

For now, though, he’s raising his shoulder right into Goodman the next time they’re on the ice together. The sound when Goodman makes contact with the glass isn’t quite the same as the one when Koskinen went down, but it’s still deep, the glass shaking in an echo of force. He doesn’t get called for it, but he does get called for tripping Goodman next shift, and when he gets out of the box, unfortunately after less than two, he can’t say the coaching staff looks impressed.

“You want to protect your guys, I get it,” McGinley says, leaning over him, talking close to his ear, either so the cameras can’t pick him up or the guys can’t.

His guys. Koskinen still doesn’t feel like one. But he’s an Av, and he’s probably on his way to the fucking hospital, and no one deserves getting flattened like that. Zach’s just doing his job.

“Rein it the fuck in MacDonald,” McGinley says. “Don’t get emotional.”

“I’m not emotional,” Zach says.

“You’re are and you fucking know it,” McGinley says, and Zach doesn’t have a response for that.


	167. David, Mary Anne Mercado; outgrown

David’s quiet today.

David’s often quiet, though not always. He’s never quiet with his team, though Mary Anne sits close enough to the ice that the boards echo and she can hear him, so often critical, dismissive of those around him, can only hope he’s not like that in school as well. She knows where he got it from, but it makes her sad to hear it. He’s never been like that around her.

He’s not usually quiet around her either, excited to tell her about the games the night before, the one he watched and the ones he read up on before school, studying the results like it’s an exam he’s afraid to fail. She knows Ottawa played last night, she watched the first period with him before Charlotte got home. She watched the final few minutes at home — they lost to Hartford, 4-1, and she’s waiting for his summary, ready to hear whether Ottawa deserved to lose or it was bad luck, bad refereeing, bad — something. He used to find excuses for them every game they lost, but lately she finds he’s critical of them even when they win. She’s not sure that’s a good thing.

He’s been different since Jeffrey left. Angry all the time. She mentioned it to Charlotte, and Charlotte dismissed it, said all boys that age were moody, said it was nothing to worry about, but Mary Anne is worried, even more because Charlotte’s been working even more since the separation. David, in one of the bursts of anger, said he was too old for a babysitter, eyes narrowed and lips a flat line, and Mary Anne reminded him that she was also his ride to hockey, which took the wind out of his sails, but the idea of him in that apartment alone from the end of the school day to whenever Charlotte came home — it’s later and later, and Mary Anne’s trying not to judge but it’s hard — she’s grateful he isn’t too old. No one’s old enough for that kind of loneliness.

She knows it’s a matter of time before he _is_ too old for her to stay — no one has a nanny in high school, and that’s on the horizon — and if he couldn’t carpool with a teammate, the price of cabs to and from arenas would be steep, but would add up to far from what she’s paid. She’s not looking forward to it. That’s selfish, she knows — she looks at this little boy she’s known since the age of four, this difficult, exhausting, stubborn, hardworking boy that she loves, and she knows she’s going to miss him terribly.

David’s chewing his lip, hand on his backpack. By this point in the ride to school, he’s usually moved on to the games he didn’t see, the ones he looked up.

“How did the game go after I left?” Mary Anne prompts him.

“Fine,” David mutters.

“I thought they lost,” Mary Anne says.

“Then why did you ask?” David snaps.

“I don’t know the details,” Mary Anne says. “And you always do.”

“Well, I don’t,” David says.

“You didn’t watch?” Mary Anne asks.

“Stop,” David says.

“David—” She says.

“Mom made me turn it off so we could have a ‘talk’ about you leaving me like you want to, so stop acting like you care!” David says, voice breaking.

Mary Anne pulls onto a side street.

“Where are you going,” David says.

“We’re going to have a talk,” Mary Anne says.

“I’m going to be late for school,” David says.

“I’ll write you a note,” Mary Anne says, then parks in the nearest empty spot. “Want to get out of the car?”

“No,” David says, then swipes at his eyes, head turned away from Mary Anne like he’s trying to hide it. She can’t even count how many times she’s seen David cry, and since he was little, he always tried to hide it.

“I’m getting in the back seat,” she decides, because she can’t do this from the front. David’s tight against the window when she gets in, like he’s trying to keep as far away from her as possible.

“Your mother hasn’t talked to me about this,” Mary Anne says. “So I can’t tell you —” she feels suddenly misty herself. “I don’t know how long I’ll be working for your family. That’s up to your mother.”

“Right,” David mutters. “Whatever.”

“But,” she says, puts her hand on David’s, half expecting him to snatch it away. “I care about you, David. And even if I’m not your nanny anymore, I’m still going to care about you.”

David scoffs, still looking out the window. She doesn’t blame him. She knows the things Jeffrey said to David before he left, promises to keep in touch, offers to fly him out to Calgary during summer break. She knows how little David’s heard from Jeffrey since.

“I’m going to promise you something,” Mary Anne says.

“What,” David says flatly.

“If you call me, even if I don’t work for your family anymore, if you need me, or you just want to talk, I’m going to be there,” Mary Anne says. “Okay?”

David’s quiet for a minute. “Okay,” he says. “Can we go? I have a math quiz.”

“Sure,” she says. 

*

It breaks her heart that he never calls. She’s not sure what would hurt more, that he never called because he didn’t want to, or that he never called because he didn’t believe her, was afraid to find out that she too made an empty promise she had no intention of keeping.

That’s not true. 

She knows exactly which would hurt more.

*

On the day of the 2010 draft, Mary Anne sits in front of the TV, hands clasped, hoping for first. David looks so much older. Not like an adult, not yet, even though she knows he is one, but like someone on his way to it.

Jake Lourdes is drafted first, and David tries to keep a straight face, but she knows him, and she sees it, that anger at the edges, the motion of swallowing the lump in his throat. The cameras linger on his face like they’re waiting for him to break down, and she hates them, and she aches for him.

David goes second, and his smile is tense and strained, but it’s there, and she wishes she knew how to get in touch with him, wishes she could tell him how proud she is, because she’s afraid he isn’t going to hear it as much as he should.

The next day she goes to practically every sports store in the Capital Region looking for a New York Islanders jersey, finally finding one at Hockey Experts. She gets it customized with his name, the number he played with since he was ten years old, hoping he gets to keep it.

“Hometown boy,” the cashier says. “You’re an Isles fan?”

“I am now,” she says.


	168. Georgie; birthday boy

His family comes to see the Caps play in Boston. Mom, dad, even Will, who has a textbook with him, the nerd, but came, so Georgie’s not even going to tease him. Much. Dicky’s at school down in Texas, so that’s not realistic, but Georgie’s grabbing drinks with him the next time they play in Dallas, even though he goes to school like three hours away from there, so no bro foul has been committed.

They didn’t tell him they were coming, he’s just out of the room when he gets kind of attack hugged by his mom, and he wraps his arms around her, rests his chin on her head until she lets go, which is maybe not for awhile. Georgie doesn’t care if he gets chirped for being a mommy’s boy: he missed her. He talks to her on the phone every week, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t miss her.

“You were great,” she says, after he gets his shorter dad and Will hugs. “You’ve been playing so great.”

Since he came to Washington, she means, and he can’t argue, but there are only so many times he can hear it.

“Thanks,” he says, though, because it’s a compliment, not a jab, no matter how much it feels like one, pointing out that apparently he can only play good hockey if he’s got Robbie beside him. Robbie resenting being beside him.

“Robbie!” his mom says suddenly. Robbie stops stock still in the doorway and Georgie glares at her, then looks over to his dad, who shrugs, all ‘I didn’t do it, be mad at your mom’.

“Um,” Robbie says, looking like he wants to escape. Georgie wishes him luck. “Hi Mr. and Mrs. Dineen. Hi William.”

“Sharon, please Robbie, how many times have I told you,” his mom says, all casual like Robbie’s one of Georgie’s high school bros or still his boyfriend, like it’s easy. It’s awkward, and Georgie knows Robbie feels it too, says, “Sorry Sharon,” dutifully like he always has, but he’s gone kind of red. Georgie wants to touch him.

He shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Came in for the game, huh?” Robbie says, then winces, that ‘ugh I’m saying dumb shit’ wince. Back in college, the his next move would always be to look at Georgie, all ‘you heard me say dumb shit, huh?’ and most the time he’d laugh when Georgie widened his eyes in return.

Robbie’s not looking at him, though, so.

“Thought we’d come in to celebrate Georgie’s birthday,” his mom says.

“I thought it was in January,” Robbie says.

“You were in California,” his mom says.

“Right,” Robbie mumbles. “I gotta — my family’s here too.”

“Oh, say hello to your mother for me?” his mom asks, ignoring the look Georgie gives her.

“Yeah, of course,” Robbie says. “Um. Nice to see you guys.”

“You too, Robbie,” his dad says, more to Robbie’s back than anything, since Robbie’s speed walking away.

“How are things with you two?” his mom asks.

“Mom,” Georgie says.

“It’s just a question,” she says.

“Stop,” Georgie says. “You ask every time, and the answer’s always the same.”

“I’m hoping the answer will change,” she says.

“Well it won’t,” Georgie says. “So stop, okay?”

“Okay,” his mom says, then, “I just worry—”

“Sharon,” his dad interrupts.

“Okay,” she repeats.

Will looks like he’s trying to be one with the wall. “How’s school?” Georgie asks.

“Ridiculous,” Will says. “How are things with Robbie?”

Georgie kicks him in the shin.

“Ow, _mom_ ,” Will says.

“Well,” she says. “At least he’s not kicking _me_ for asking.”

“I don’t have a death wish,” Georgie says.

They end up arguing where to go for ten minutes, because everyone has a favorite, and inevitably someone else hates that place, or it’s too far, or no fucking way Georgie’s going to a place two blocks away from TD Garden when his team just beat the Bruins, is his family nuts? Georgie argues he should have birthday dinner veto, but that’s not flying.

“It’s not actually your birthday,” his dad says, which. Yeah, Georgie’s birthday was an off-day in LA and a grand total of Quincy wished him a happy birthday. Like, obviously his family and his friends called and texted or whatever, but as far as the Caps were concerned, nothing was happening. Last year Georgie got an assist, a shaving cream pie to the face courtesy of De Souza and free drinks all night, though an unfortunate number of them happened to be blowjobs, and an actual blowjob.

Twenty-four fucking sucks. Twenty-three did too, but differently, at least until he went to the Caps. He maybe wasn’t where he wanted to be, career-wise, and that maybe manifested itself in a pit in his stomach that never went away, made everything feel heavier than it should, but —

Georgie would take playing like shit in Cleveland over playing gorgeous hockey with Robbie and just tug tug tugging away at that stupid fucking wound that won’t quit, festers a little bit more with every barbed look or word, every moment Robbie’s in his presence, undeniable and unrecognizable all at once, so angry all the time in a way Georgie’s never seen. 

Robbie has a temper, Robbie has a massive fucking temper, but he’s a big explosion then immediate disarmament kind of guy, not what this is, this constant simmering just under the skin, occasional flashes of rage throwing shrapnel out, uncaring of where it lands. Georgie deserves it, maybe, but he’s seen Robbie go off on Elliott Matthews more than once, even though he seems to be Robbie’s…best friend, or something, knows he’s unleashed it on David, though in at least one case it was the kind of thing he had every right to get furious about. Georgie doesn’t know if he was angry like this before Georgie got there, and there’s no one he can ask, really. Maybe Chaps, if he’s desperate, but he’s not sure he wants to know the answer.

At dinner (mom won, but at least dad didn’t, so Georgie isn’t surrounded by Bruins fans sulking postgame), Will elbows him. Georgie elbows him back.

“How are things with Robbie?” Will asks.

“I really need you not to make this a family joke, okay?” Georgie snaps.

“Sorry,” Will says. “But seriously.”

“They’re shit, okay, so stop asking, Will,” Georgie says.

“Okay,” Will says, and thankfully drops it, because Georgie doesn’t have the energy to hear the question again, let alone keep giving the same answer.


	169. Jordan/Hank; first date

A week before the Red Wings are due to play the Jets in Winnipeg, Hank gets an email from Davies. He opens it with trepidation, scans through it with trepidation, reads it again, slower. Still some trepidation there.

Replies with affirmation, too slowly to claim thoughtlessness, and then spends the next two hours internally swearing at himself and debating sending another email saying he was mistaken, he’s busy that day, not in town, something instead of what he did reply, which was,  _Sure, that sounds good. Let me know when works best for you_. Davies replies to him while Hank is drafting a polite refusal with reluctance he doesn’t want to examine. Gives him a place and a time, ends with it with _It’ll be good to catch up! :) Jordan_ and Hank finds himself writing  _See you then! :)_ before he can help himself.

He then knocks his head against his desk, because why, Henry, why.

It’s not a date. That’s what Hank tells himself repeatedly, tells his sister, who is far too amused, tells his father two days later, because his sister is an unrepentant gossip.

Of course, if it’s not a date, it’s — what? Dinner with a former colleague would be understandable, but Davies wasn’t a colleague, and the contact Hank did have with him was…inappropriate, at times. Nothing explicitly against the rules, but certainly not something the NHLOA would have approved of.

There was — something. Hank won’t deny it. Hank’s had rapport with players, or at least he likes to think so, had conversations and shared jokes and equanimity along with the bile spewed when a call didn’t go the way players wanted it to. He had dinner with the Jets coach two weeks ago, and no one would have batted an eye. Refs are human. Besides, it’s not a lifelong vocation. He’s retired. 

Except even with his reffing behind him, he has an uneasy feeling about it, like he’s crossing a line. It’s not the first time he’s felt that way when it comes to Davies. There was something…heated, even when they were talking about the weather or the idiotic slash by a Red Wings rookie. Tense. If Hank could compare it to anything, it’s the heat your body gives off, the tenderness, when you press down on a bruise just to see if it still hurts.

This is a very, very bad idea. Hank really needs to cancel.

He takes his best suit to the drycleaners.

*

“It’s not a date,” Jordan says, for at least the fifth time. Lindsay is relentless.

“Dinner when you want to bone each other is a date,” Lindsay says. “Even if you’re not calling it that.”

“Not always,” Jordan says, and when Lindsay laughs triumphantly, “Fuck off.”

“Glad you’re not denying the mutual wanting to bone anymore, at least,” Lindsay says.

“Stop saying bone,” Jordan says. “You’re a mother now, you need to be…” He feels like however he finishes that sentence, it will not end well for him.

“Whatever you’re going to say, no I do not,” Lindsay says. “Also: bone bone bone.”

“Thanks for your maturity,” Jordan says. “I really appreciate it.”

“You’re so welcome,” Lindsay says. “But back to your river in Egypt.”

“It’s not like there’s anything else to do in Winnipeg,” Jordan says.

“Fair,” Lindsay says. “And yet not even close to your actual reasons.”

“Fine,” Jordan says. “It’s not a date—”

“Jord,” Lindsay says.

“—But,” Jordan adds pointedly, and Lindsay shuts up. “It’d be cool if it was.”

“’Cool’,” Lindsay says. “You’re so chill, bruh. It’d be ‘cool’ if you were going on a date with the dude you’ve been hot for, for like, what, five years?”

“I hate you,” Jordan says. “I have to go to practice. You’re making me stand in the cold.” Well, he guess he’s making himself stand in the cold, but he doesn’t want to bring the call inside, in case his half of the conversation is considered chirp-worthy, which it will be, and he didn’t have the foresight to stay in the car, because he was both optimistic and stupid enough to think the call was wrapping up before Lindsay brought up the ‘date’ again.

“Love you too, hope you get laid well enough you get less grumpy,” Lindsay says. Jordan wishes phones still had flips so he punctuate the end of the call with more than a jab at the touch screen, which doesn’t have the same spirit to it. Definitely not the same as slamming the phone down, but portability’s a plus, he guesses. Even if it just means Lindsay can find him everywhere.

“Lindsay?” Rossiter asks. Jordan hadn’t even realized he was there. If Jordan hadn’t been trained by years and years (and years) of guys thinking the height of humor was jump scares, he’d have leapt half a foot. Even with that training, he startles. He has no idea how someone that big can be that stealthy, especially walking through the crunch of snow.

“How’d you guess?” Jordan asks grimly.

“You’ve got that face,” Rossiter says.

“Face?” Jordan asks, and Rossiter gives him a grumpy look.

“Usually it’s a wi — significant other face,” Rossiter says. “But with you it’s always Lindsay.”

“You don’t have to be gender neutral, Keaton,” Jordan says. “I’m cool with you saying wife.”

“Yeah, but someone else might not be,” Rossiter says.

Jordan pats him on the back. Keaton’s good people. Even if he set him up with the most boring guy alive. Then sulked for weeks when Jordan dumped him. Still good people.

“What’s this about a date?” Rossiter asks.

Jordan gives him a look.

“Aw, I get the face too?” Rossiter asks. “I didn’t know you felt that way about me, Jordie.”

“It’s not a date,” Jordan says.

“But you want it to be,” Rossiter says.

“But I want it to be,” Jordan admits.

“My little Jordie’s all grown up,” Keaton says, wiping an imaginary tear away. “I’m so proud.”

“I’m older than you,” Jordan says. “Also your captain.”

“So grown up,” Rossiter repeats. “I hope it works out, bro.”

“Yeah,“ Jordan says. “Me too.”


	170. David/Jake; entering the mob

“I’m freaking out,” Jake says, when they’re halfway to the gym. Since they’re splitting the rent, there was no reason not to splurge on somewhere close, and it’s a beautiful day, not too hot, so they’re walking, but maybe that wasn’t a good idea, because Jake’s started to drag his feet.

David looks over at him. He doesn’t look like he’s freaking out. He never really looks like he’s freaking out, but David knows that isn’t necessarily an accurate gauge. With Jake, everything looks effortless, and David’s increasingly realising that isn’t necessarily the case.

“Why?” David asks.

“I feel like I’m walking into a trap,” Jake says. “Is Kurmazov planning to kill me?”

“If he was you’d already be dead,” David says.

“God I really hope that was a joke,” Jake says. “That was a joke, right?”

“That was a joke,” David confirms. He still has no idea why everyone seems to get so nervous around Oleg. It’s especially weird from Jake. Jake’s flattened more guys than Oleg has, and Oleg’s career is three times the length. “Slava, though.”

“Slava sounds like the name of someone who could definitely kill me,” Jake says, and he is starting to sound a little nervous. “And don’t get me started on Volkie.”

“Kiro likes you,” David says. “You like Kiro.”

“Maybe that was the trap,” Jake says.

David laughs.

“Ba—David,” Jake says. “Stop. Freaking out, here.”

“Why are you freaking out?” David says. “Honestly.”

“These are your guys,” Jake says.

“Yes,” David says.

“I feel like I’m not welcome or something,” Jake says. “I don’t know.”

“Slava said it was fine,” David says. “Oleg said it was fine. Kiro said — well. He clapped his hands and said ‘Panthers will kick your Capitals asses!’ then talked about, um. Us going out with him and Emily when she comes to town.”

It’s not like he thinks if he said the words ‘double dating’ aloud it’d make it to Deadspin, but the streets are busy, he played in New York for years, albeit for the less popular team, and it’s best to be cautious.

Jake grins a little. “I didn’t say I was being reasonable,” he admits.

“No, I get it,” David says. He more than understands the ugly twist in your stomach when you enter something as an outsider. It’s something he’s been dealing with less recently, but he doesn’t miss it, and memory still remains, clear and sharp. “You have me.”

“The scariest of everyone,” Jake says, but says it nicely, somehow.

“Thanks,” David says.

“Also Volkie keeps talking about the Russian mob and cracking his knuckles,” Jake says. “So that’s probably a bad sign.”

David fights a smile. “Never listen to Kiro when he starts on that,” he says. “Trust me.”

“I do,” Jake says. He’s fiddling with his hands, and David wants nothing more than to take them, still them. He wishes he could.

“Jake,” David says, then, “Lourdey,” the standard among Panthers, up to and including Kiro.

“Yeah, Davidson?” Jake says, and David tries to frown, but can’t.

“You have me, okay?” David says.

Jake smiles, wide and brilliant, and David doesn’t know if that’s ever going to stop feeling like a punch in the gut. He kind of hopes not. “I know,” he says.


	171. David/Jake, Alexei; meeting your idol

The World Cup returns in 2020, and David is one of the players on the roster. It’s not surprising, after securing gold two years before, though it wasn’t guaranteed, David supposes. There won’t be a reunion of the gold line, at least, after Rousseau’s subpar season, though he’s sure they’ll put David on Lapointe’s wing again.

He’s looking forward to it, but he’s nervous. Less about the games themselves, since, while they’re important, they can’t overtake the importance of the Olympics, but he’s been anxious since Alexei Konstantinovich was listed as the assistant general manager for Team Russia, because that’s — intimidating. David doubts they’ll interact, but the idea of Konstantinovich watching him when Canada plays Russia, it’s. David already used intimidating, but that’s the only word he can use.

Kiro’s been unbearable about it. “Was he your first crush?” he asked when it was announced, then laughed himself sick when David went bright red. “Watch out, Jacobson,” he said afterward, and kept at it even when Jake threw a sweaty towel in his face, stopped only when Jake followed up with a headlock, and then only because he was laughing so hard he couldn’t talk anymore.

David’s a little afraid for his and Emily’s baby. He thinks he or she is going to be embarrassed a lot around their father. They’ll never doubt they’re loved, though. Kiro had followed up with a ruffle of his hair and a kiss to his cheek, lips cool against the blush, then a “Davidson _loves_  Russians,” in Jake’s direction, which earned him another headlock.

Kiro’s not here now, which David is conflicted about. On one hand, he’d be ramping up the mockery to maximum, but on the other hand, Kiro beside him always seems to help when he’s out of his depth, and right now, ten feet away from Alexei Konstantinovich, he couldn’t be more out of his depth if he tried.

There’s a gala a night before the World Cup begins anew, a flash of media, management, star players. Not the entire roster of every team, not even a quarter of them, which makes it especially flattering to be invited, though he’s annoyed on Jake’s behalf that he wasn’t. David saw and avoided Boucher, shared a nod with Madsen, vowed to stay away from the Sportsnet news crew and took an offered flute of champagne when he saw Konstantinovich, and now he feels caught.

Konstantinovich doesn’t look like he did when he played, has gone grey, a little fat, at least comparatively, but David recognises him anyway, partly from pictures, partly from the way his eyes are the same, the steeliest blue David’s ever seen. He’s talking to another middle-aged man and Anton Petrov. That gives David pause, since Petrov’s on the Team USA roster, until he notices the resemblance to the man beside him, thinks it must be Vladimir Petrov. He watched Russia win gold, and Petrov was in net when Konstantinovich scored the winning goal, so that makes sense.

Petrov raises a hand when David sees him, and David raises one back. He doesn’t want to intrude, but he can’t just —

His feet are moving entirely without his permission. It’s probably good to foster cross-border communication in an event like this anyway.

There’s a murmur of Russian that cuts off when David arrives, and he feels even more like he intruded, is annoyed with himself for that and also for not dedicating himself more to learning Russian when he first set himself on the task.

“Chapman, hey,” Petrov says.

“Hi,” David says. “I just wanted to—” Embarrass himself, he guesses.

“Alexei,” Konstantinovich says when David doesn’t finish, offering his hand, like David could possibly not know who he is.

“David Chapman,” David says. “It’s an honour, Mr. Konstantinovich.”

Konstantinovich is smiling faintly. “You seem a little young,” he says.

“Pardon me?” David asks.

“To remember me,” Konstantinovich says.

David was still a kid when he went back to Russia, but the cult of influence he still had in Vancouver was heavy for years afterwards, and youtube was an illuminating source when David was a teenager, followed by entire vintage games when he happened upon them. David can’t even count how many hours he spent watching him play, years after the games had actually happened, completely mesmerized, wanting to play exactly like him, hoping he could. He still hopes he can. He’s never matched him.

“You’re one of my biggest influences,” David says honestly. Then, before he can stop himself, “I wear 11. I’ve worn it since I was fifteen, you’re—” he forces himself to cut himself off, because he’s embarrassing himself even more now. Kiro would be in stitches.

“I like your friend, Antosha,” Konstantinovich says, and David feels himself go red. Redder.

“I still think you were overrated,” Petrov says, scowling, and David gapes at him, but Konstantinovich and Petrov Senior just laugh.

“It was good to meet you,” Konstantinovich says, when David excuses himself long after he should, increasingly aware that they’re holding the conversation in English for his sake, that he’s intruding, he must be intruding. He’s still reluctant to leave.

“You too, Mr. Konstaninovich,” David says.

“Alexei,” Konstantinovich says.

“Alexei,” David repeats, even though it feels wrong on his tongue.

“I look forward to seeing you play,” Konstantinovich says.

“You too,” David repeats.

*

Three steps later he realises exactly what he just said and wants to slap himself. _You too?_

He hides in a corner, mortified, takes out his phone, texts Kiro what he said.

_hahahahahahahahahahaha_ is Kiro’s response.

Kiro’s a jerk. David texts Emily that information, though he’s sure she already knows.

*

Tomorrow they have to go to the rooms assigned by Team Canada and Team USA, but tonight after the gala David goes back to the midtown hotel room they’re both staying at under Dave’s name. Jake’s watching TV in his underwear when David gets back, eating room service.

“No eating in bed,” David says. “Come on.”

“Over a plate,” Jake counters. “How was it?”

“Good,” David says.

“Actually?” Jake asks, and David nods. Minus mortifying himself in front of Konstantinovich, which he tells Jake about.

Jake doesn’t laugh at him like Kiro did, at least, but he does say, “Volkie was right, he totally was your first crush.”

“He wasn’t my first crush,” David says. “I mean, he wasn’t _real_.”

Jake gives him a look.

“He didn’t _feel_ real to me,” David says. “It was like. I don’t know. He wasn’t real.”

“But now he is,” Jake says.

David thinks of him, gone to seed, but his eyes are still the same and his teeth are blinding white when he smiles. “Sort of,” David says.

“Oh man, do I need to be afraid of Konstantinovich sweeping you off your feet?” Jake asks.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” David says. “He’s married. He’s not gay.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jake repeats. “I love you, I would never leave you for some old geezer.”

“Is that what I was supposed to say?” David asks, smiling.

“Yes!” Jake says. “I’m going to eat this sandwich in bed now. No plate and everything.”

“Stop it,” David says, when Jake makes to do so. He hates crumbs, and Jake knows exactly how much. “I love you.”

“I’d never leave you for some old geezer,” Jake prompts.

“I’d never leave you,” David says.

“For—” Jake says.

“That’s it,” David says. “I don’t need to add the rest, do I?”

Jake looks at him, silent. “No,” he says finally. “You don’t.”


	172. Derek/Andy, Sens; St. Andrews Day

Derek shows up for the game in a…unconventional game day suit. Dan doesn’t even want to know.

“Why are you wearing a skirt,” Gerard says, sounding tired.

“It’s a kilt,” Derek says.

“Dare I ask?” Sven asks Bowie, who looks like he’s about a thread from snapping. Dan goes over to pat his back. He’s a strong man, that Andy Bowman. Lesser men would definitely have gone insane by now.

“It’s St. Andrew’s Day,” Derek says, and then when all he gets back are blank looks, “It’s Scotland’s national day. I’m honouring my heritage.”

“Your dad was born in Canada,” Andy says, in the kind of tone where you can tell this is not this first time he’s said it. “Your _grandpa_ was born in Canada.”

“Argentina, actually,” Derek says.

“Your _Scottish_ grandpa,” Andy says.

“Huh?” Derek asks. “He wasn’t Scottish, he was Canadian.”

Andy throws his hands up in despair, and Dan can’t hold back a laugh.

“I’m a Carruthers,” Derek says. “I’m Scottish.”

“Like barely!” Andy says.

“We have a lot in common, the Scots and me,” Derek says.

“Not this again,” Andy says tragically, and Dan pats his back again.

“I also worship a St. Andrew, so,” Derek says.

“Ugh,” Gerard says. “That was terrible.”

Andy is like. Magenta. “Stop calling me St. Andrew,” he hisses. “And stop saying you worship me.”

“I do worship you,” Derek says.

“This is sweet,” Sven says.

“No,” Gerard says. “No, it isn’t, Sven.”

It takes Derek awhile to quit flouncing around the room and showing off his ‘sick fucking threads’, while Andy sticks close to Dan and pretends not to know him, but finally he comes over, looking kind of caught.

“Bowie,” he whispers, and Dan probably shouldn’t eavesdrop, but if Derek’s whispering, it’s probably something embarrassing. “Bowie, I wore it traditional.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Andy whispers back.

“You know, traditional?” Derek says, then hikes his kilt up in Andy’s direction.

Andy covers his eyes. “Why aren’t you wearing underwear?” he says shrilly. which gets the attention of the room.

“It’s traditional!” Derek says. “I was being traditional! The fuck am I going to do for the game?”

“Don’t you have stuff here?” Dan asks.

Derek shrugs a little ruefully. “No.”

“I have some extra pairs in my locker,” Sven says.

“I can’t wear your underwear, dude,” Derek says. “Come on.”

“So you’re just going to free ball under your pads?” Leon asks. “This sounds like a groin injury in the making.”

“Can you go to Tanger Outlet and pick up some underwear?” Sven asks their assistant equipment manager, then slips him a fifty. It’s the poor guy’s first season with them. He probably had no idea what equipment management could extend to.

He returns after twenty minutes with possibly the loudest, most obnoxious printed underwear possible, hands it over with a smirk.

“These are fucking sick,” Derek says. “Awesome.”

Dan can see his face drop. “Sorry, man,” he says, going to pat his shoulder. A lot of moral support is needed when dealing with Cary. “He’s unembarrassable.”

“I worked so hard for this job,” he says, voice small.

“I know,” Dan says. “I know, buddy.”

“Andy check out my ass in these!” Derek yells.

The assistant equipment manager makes a noise that sounds a little like a sob.

“I know,” Dan repeats.


	173. Robbie/Matty; Barista!AU

**“Today your barista is: 1. Hella fucking gay 2. Desperately single. For your drink today I recommend: you give me your number.” Thanks to a stupid joke by his coworkers, Robbie now has at least 30 napkins with phone numbers in his pocket. Since he is desperately single, he might as well go on a few dates, right? Especially since the one guy he actually wants is straight and unavailable. Robbie/multi, Robbie/Matthews endgame.**

Robbie doesn’t figure out what’s going on until, like, the fifth number he gets. In his defense, he’s been here since five a.m., he didn’t get nearly enough sleep since he stayed up to watch the Bruins game — they didn’t even win, fuckers — and he’s running mostly on autopilot.

“Why are you giving me your number,” Robbie says flatly.

“Um,” the guy says. “The sign?”

“What sign,” Robbie says, and when the guy gestures, he marches out from behind the counter to find, in cheerful chalk lettering,  “Today your barista is: 1. Hella fucking gay 2. Desperately single. For your drink today I recommend: you give me your number.”

“Are you fucking kidding me,” Robbie says. “Carmen, Carruthers, get your sorry fucking asses over here!”

“I’m…gonna go,” the guy says.

“What in the fuck,” Robbie says when Carms gets back from the stock room and Cary quits hiding behind the counter. “What in the fucking fuck.”

“You’ve been a raging bitch since you caught your hot-shot boyfriend with a chick,” Carms says.

Cary elbows him. “Not that we blame you, bitchiness is totally understandable!” he adds. “What with the whole—” What with the whole Robbie being stranded in fucking Canada with a year left on his student visa, mounting debt now that he isn’t living rent-free with an AHLer, and also asshole fucking coworkers? Who the fuck _wouldn’t_ be bitchy. Not that Robbie’s bitchy. He’s pissed. There’s a difference.

“You need to get laid,” Carms finishes. “Like, badly.”

“I don’t want or need your fucking help to get a date,” Robbie says. He admittedly hasn’t dated since Georgie, but that’s less ‘can’t’ and more ‘don’t want to because men are shit’.

“Some of those guys were kind of hot, though,” Cary says.

He’s not actually wrong. Phone number five was the one that tipped Robbie off, because Robbie was already checking phone number five out before he gave Robbie his number. He’d maybe keep that one, but he thinks he scared him off with his reaction, so.

“Did I fucking ask, Carruthers?” Robbie asks.

“Um,” someone says.

“What?” Robbie snaps.

“Are you guys done fighting yet?” she asks. “Because I’d kind of like to get a frozen hot chocolate.”

Fucking Canada, man. It’s zero degrees — Fahrenheit not Celsius — but sure, get your hot chocolate with a side of not even hot.

“Right, yes,” Carms says. “What size?”

“I’m going on break,” Robbie says. “Coming back never.”

He spends his forever break in one of the cushy chairs at the back, furiously texting everyone about his douchebag coworkers, then calls Matty.

“I was sleeping in,” Matty says sadly when he picks up the phone. “I closed last night.”

Robbie’s well aware, since he’s been staying with Matty since he moved out of Georgie’s, and Matty wasn’t even home by the time Robbie went to bed. He kind of feels bad now, but not bad enough to let him go back to sleep.

“Your fucking coworkers are shitheads,” Robbie says.

Matty yawns. “What happened?”

Robbie sums it up, and Matty only laughs a little. Robbie would prefer zero laughter, but since most of his texts have been unsympathetic ‘HAHAHAHAHAHAHA’s, and one confused ‘why would they do that?’ from Chaps, it’s probably the best Robbie’s going to get.

“How could you let them do this?” Robbie hisses.

“I wasn’t even there!” Matty objects.

“You’re the supervisor,” Robbie says. “You should have known they were plotting something stupid.”

“I didn’t get psychic powers when I got promoted, Bardi,” Matty says.

“Well you should have,” Robbie says, then hangs up on him, because he’s not being helpful at all.

“Take the sign down,” Robbie says when he gets off break. “Or I’ll fucking kill you.”

Twenty-five numbers later, he has a feeling Cary and Carms are not as afraid of him as they should be.


	174. Robbie/Matty; Barista!AU, pt 2

**Barista!AU Robbie goes on a terrible date (not creepy-bad just hilariously-awful) but he gets to spend the rest of the night curled up with Matty on the couch so it turns out to be a pretty good night after all.**

You’d think Robbie would have learned by now to avoid the hot ones. Like, they’re hot but they settle for Robbie? Obviously something has to be wrong with them.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Matty says, frowning at him, then pats Robbie’s shoulder twice like a cross between ‘there there, self-hater’ and ‘take it back or my pats will turn into hits’. Robbie speaks Matty pats pretty well by now.

“You want to hear this or not?” Robbie asks.

“Not if you keep dissing yourself,” Matty says stubbornly.

“Fine,” Robbie sighs. “Let me start again.”

Robbie’s been trying and failing to halt Carms and Cary’s idiotic plan of disaster —

“Dissing Derek and Sandro is fine,” Matty says when Robbie pauses and looks at him expectantly.

— that Matty has been terrible at trying to suppress, surprise surprise —

“Don’t diss _me,_ ” Matty says. “Come on.”

— but Robbie will admit that some decently attractive guys have given Robbie their numbers as a result. Robbie tries to take note of them, scribble a short description on the back of the ones he might be interested in, something like _hipster stereotype with nice eyes_ , or _leafs fan but great ass_ , something to remember them if he ever bothers to text them. Which he did with Leafs Fan, Great Ass. Because it was a truly great ass. 

Now he knows why.

The first thing about Sebastien is that he’s a total Frenchie from the name on down.

“Don’t be a dick,” Matty says.

The second thing about Sebastien is that a month ago he was a small piece of the blockbuster trade between the Panthers and the Leafs, and as a result, is not a Leafs fan, but a member of the Leafs organization as a fucking _Marlie_. No wonder he has a great ass.

“Oh shit,” Matty says.

“My fucking luck, right?” Robbie asks. “Dated — or whatever — two Marlies except it’s not a dream it’s a fucking nightmare.”

“Do you think Georgie—” Matty asks.

“No,” Robbie says. “Like — he was pretty surprised at the coincidence too.”

“You talked about Georgie?” Matty asks.

Well. The third thing about Sebastien is that he seems like a pretty honest person, which he was when Robbie asked about Georgie, maybe not mentioning who Georgie was to him beyond, like ‘we lived together once’. His honesty was — unpleasant, like when Robbie asked whether he still had the same girlfriend he did four months ago (…well, Robbie wouldn’t call her a girlfriend, more an accessory to cheating, but maybe she was after. Or then. Or whatever.), and Sebastien basically said if he did, she looked like at least five different women, because that’s how many times he’s seen Georgie pick up since he joined the roster. 

“Oh Robbie,” Matty says.

“It’s whatever,” Robbie says, “Or, well.”

The fourth thing about Sebastien is that he seems like a nice enough guy, and he gives a good hug when you start crying in the middle of a fucking restaurant, and rubs your back and then says ‘I just told him I was pregnant’ when people start staring, so you start laughing through your tears and kind of choke it on, and he hangs on until there’s nothing left in you and says not to say sorry when you apologize because you just cried over what looks like a pretty expensive shirt and takes you to a different restaurant where you didn’t start crying into the bruschetta and insists on paying for  a three course meal and tells you if you ever want to talk, he’ll listen.

“Oh Robbie,” Matty says again.

“Don’t ‘Oh Robbie’,” Robbie says. “I got enough ‘oh Robbie’ today.”

“So wait, he sounds — nice?” Matty says.

“He’s a Marlie,” Robbie says.

“But…hot and nice?” Matty asks. “I’m not seeing the ‘thing about hot people’ here. He sounds pretty great.”

“Hockey players are fucking assholes,” Robbie says. “Also during the dinner that involved less crying he admitted he was crazy hung up on his best friend and this date was like, last ditch trying to distract himself and hope it goes away before he cracks and potentially ruins his life, so. Add emotionally unavailable to hockey player and Frenchie on the list of cons.”

“Stop insulting the French,” Matty says.

“Never,” Robbie says.

“You want a hug?” Matty asks. “I don’t know if it’ll be as good as Sebastien’s, but—”

“Less crying involved at least,” Robbie says, and leans into Matty on the couch when Matty wraps an arm around him. Matty squeezes his shoulder, keeps his arm there, heavy in a comforting way.

“Would hate-watching Once Upon A Time make you feel better?” Matty asks.

“Don’t front, you love it unironically,” Robbie says. “But. Yeah. Thanks.”

“Any time,” Matty says.


	175. Matty, Crane, Robbie; needy bitch

“Lombardi’s a dick,” is the first thing Dev says to him on the bus, matter-of-fact.

Elliott blinks. “Did he do something?” he asks.

Dev squints at him.

Elliott looks at his hands.

“What’d he say to you?” Dev asks.

“It doesn’t matter,” Elliott says.

“If he’s warning me you’re probably bunking with me tonight, he did something shitty,” Dev says.

“I have my own room,” Elliott says, though the idea of sharing one with Robbie tonight makes him feel kind of crappy. “He just doesn’t think before he speaks sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” Dev scoffs.

Elliott shrugs.

“What’d he say?” Dev repeats.

“Nothing terrible,” Elliott mumbles. “Or like. Nothing that wasn’t true.”

Dev sighs loudly, then throws an arm around him. “Lombardi’s a dick,” he says.

“It’s fine,” Elliott says.

“Not going to tell me, eh?” Dev asks.

Elliott shakes his head.

“So it was something _super_ shitty,” Dev says.

“No,” Elliott says. “I’m just overreacting. It’s fine.”

*

He’s sure he is overreacting — Robbie often blurts out things he doesn’t mean, or maybe does mean, but not in the way they come out. Robbie’s been really tense lately too, and the littlest things will make him snap. Elliott’s seen him like this before, but usually he knows why, usually they’re all right with him, because it’s over things like bad losing streaks or playoff pressure, things everyone gets wound tight about. It doesn’t last as long either. Robbie will be tense for a few days, a week or whatever. This time it’s been months, on and off. Sometimes he’s more tense than other times, but it doesn’t seem to go away completely, and Elliott never knows what’s going to set him off. It’s like sharing a room with a time bomb. Not even a time bomb, because you can see the count down, you know when it’ll go off. It’s like tiptoeing around a mine field. You try not to take a wrong step, but you don’t know where the wrong step is.

Elliott knows he’s kind of inexperienced. He gets teased about a lot, some of the guys even calling him a virgin, though he isn’t one. He doesn’t have anything against what some of the guys do, pick up constantly. As long as it makes them happy and no one gets hurt, he doesn’t care, even if it isn’t something he’d do himself. This is the second season he’s lived with Dougie. Dougie has Lauren now, but before they got together, Dougie used to bring back girls all the time, and it didn’t bug Elliott. Maybe it was a little awkward if he ran into them in the mornings, but it was mostly cool.

Robbie’s like him, at least Elliott thought. Not inexperienced, Elliott knows he was in a relationship with a guy for awhile before he joined the Caps, but he doesn’t really pick up. Or maybe he does, but he definitely doesn’t on team nights, and if he does do it other times, he doesn’t talk about it. It’s not a bad thing. Elliott doesn’t know why he got so mad about it, acted like Elliott was insulting him. If he was, he’d be insulting himself too. Though he guesses Robbie had insulting him covered.

“I can ask for two doubles,” Dev says when they get into Montreal. “It’s really not a problem.”

“It’s fine,” Elliott says, and when Dev eyes him, he forces a smile. “I’m over it.”

“Sure?” Dev asks, and when Elliott nods, “Okay, you can come by whenever though, if you want to.”

“I won’t,” Elliott says. He’s tempted, though, when it’s him and Robbie sitting on opposite beds, watching Just For Laughs, neither of them laughing. Robbie’s not saying anything for once, acting like Elliott’s fragile or something. _A needy bitch_ , Elliott thinks, and then tries to force the thought down.

“I’m going to hang with Chaps,” Robbie says abruptly, after an hour of tense, ugly silence, and Elliott’s relieved.


	176. Georgie POV, pt. 25 of BAIT

Georgie had a bad feeling about tonight from the start. Maybe not before the game, which was a disaster of epic proportions, but as soon as he saw the way Robbie was acting after it, wired and jumpy, the way he got sometimes right before he did something stupid, like accepting a dare to drink an entire bottle of rum and then throwing up all over Georgie’s shoes halfway through, or trying to stay up two nights straight and refusing to listen to Georgie when he told him he wasn’t going to retain anything he took in sleep deprived.

Robbie gets a small group of guys to agree to go out with him after the game, the kind of out that’s code for drinking too much and too fast in order to drown your sorrows and your self-pity. Georgie wouldn’t go along usually, hasn’t done that kind of ‘out’ since his rookie year, but the look in Robbie’s eye has him worried, and neither Elliott or Devon are going, nor any of the leadership group, so Georgie feels like he’s obligated so someone can watch out for him.

Robbie orders shots for the table as soon as they sit down. Robbie orders shots, and if you refuse to drink them he drinks them himself, so Georgie swallows one, then another, then a third, burning the whole way, so they aren’t tipping back into Robbie’s throat.

Robbie’s drinking too fast, talking too loud, fingers tapping against his thighs in an impatient gesture Georgie doesn’t think he even realizes he’s making. Even Dougie, generally unflappable, is starting to look uncomfortable.

“I think that guy was looking at me,” Robbie blurts out, interrupting Reggie mid-sentence. “What do you think, Wheels?”

“I think that guy was looking at you because you’re being _loud_ ,” Georgie says, shoots Reggie an apologetic look. Reggie shrugs.

“Fuck off, Georgie,” Robbie says loudly. “What, you can’t handle someone else—”

Georgie leans in across the table, meeting Robbie’s eye. Thankfully Robbie shuts up the second he does, because otherwise Georgie might have had to clap a hand over his mouth, and he’s pretty sure Robbie would have bitten him. “Robbie, I think you’re going to want to be careful about what you say right now,” Georgie says quietly. As far as he can tell Robbie hasn’t said a thing about them, not to anyone on the roster. He knows this wouldn’t be coming out of his mouth sober, not with people around. “Because I don’t think you want to have this conversation in front of our teammates.”

Georgie can see the way Robbie swallows, the tic of a muscle in his jaw, unspoken acknowledgement, agreement. “He’s looking at me,” Robbie says to Dougie, turning away from Georgie like he never said a thing. “I think I’m gonna go over.”

“I don’t really think that’s a good idea, Bardi,” Dougie says, frowning deeply now.

“Fuck all of you,” Robbie snaps. He gets up, slightly unsteady, starts heading straight across the bar, and Georgie has a feeling in the pit of his stomach that this is about to go very wrong, is out of his chair a moment after, following Robbie.

By the time he catches up Robbie’s already in the guy’s personal space, mumbling a “if you wanted—”, and the guy’s eyes are wide, trapped, like, well — like a plastered member of the Washington Capitals just aggressively muscled into his space. Georgie gets a hand on Robbie’s shoulder, pulls him back.

“What the hell are you doing, Robbie?” Georgie asks.

“Get off me,” Robbie snaps. Georgie does the opposite: tightens his grip, pulls him away from the guy, who looks grateful.

“You’re drunk, you’re obvious, and everyone’s watching,” Georgie says, quiet. Half the bar’s watching this, not that Robbie’s seemed to notice. “You want to be on Deadspin tomorrow? Because you keep this up, you’re going to be on there for hitting a guy or hitting _on_ a guy, and your mom’s going to fucking _cry_ , which I don’t think you want.”

Robbie pulls his arm out of Georgie’s grip, and Georgie lets him. He marches a few steps toward the guys then veers toward the entrance instead, probably because he can see their expressions, a mix of awkwardness and concern. Georgie’s been seeing that look pointed a lot at Robbie in the past few weeks. Georgie’s looked at Robbie like that a lot in the last few weeks. He’s completely unraveling, and Georgie doesn’t know how to help, knows Robbie would never accept help if he was offering it, but he’s not just going to stand there and watch it happen.

Robbie goes straight for the door, and Georgie follows him without thinking about it.

“Fuck off,” Robbie snaps once they’re outside. It’s below freezing, and Robbie’s just in a suit jacket, but he doesn’t seem to notice the cold.

“No,” Georgie says. “You want me to get Dougie or whoever out here instead, I’ll get them out here, but I’m not leaving you alone right now.”

“Since when do you fucking care?” Robbie asks, which is fucking cruel.

“You want to be pissed at me, you are welcome to be pissed at me,” Georgie says. Not that Robbie needs his permission. “But don’t start revising our history and expecting me to go along with it. You know I care about you.”

“Just not as much as you care about getting your dick wet,” Robbie sneers.

Georgie tries not to flinch, probably fails. Looks around quickly to see if anyone’s around, but apparently the cold’s driven everyone inside.

“We talking about this?” Georgie asks.

“We’re fucking talking about this,” Robbie spits.

This is going to be brutal, Georgie knows. Robbie’s drunk and was already surly with it before Georgie entered the equation. Robbie was surly before the _drinks_ even entered the equation, sharp-tongued and mean, and Georgie has no doubt that he’s going to hit Georgie with everything he has, that it’s going to be devastating. Still, all he feels is relief.

“Good,” Georgie says, meaning it completely.


	177. Oleg, David; Dad v. Father

“How’d you get down here?” Oleg hears when he leaves the visitors’ room in Calgary. It’s an innocent enough question, but under it he hears a thread of discomfort, even panic, and immediately makes his way over to David.

“David,” Oleg says.

“Hi,” David says. His posture’s defensive, tucked into itself.

“Who is this?” Oleg asks.

“Jeffrey Chapman,” the man says, holds his hand out.

“Oleg Kurmazov,” Oleg says and takes it.

“Guy with the goal!” Chapman says. “Great goal.”

David makes a faintly disgusted sound, and Oleg struggles not to smile. It was a terrible goal, an ugly scramble, but it got the job done in a game that seemed destined to go scoreless.

“Ready for dinner?” Chapman asks. “There’s this great steakhouse around here. Little late, maybe, but they’re open until one and it’s never a bad time for a steak, right Dave?”

David’s eyes flick over to Oleg unconsciously, like a trapped animal looking for aid.

There is no excuse that wouldn’t sound contrived at this point, but Oleg can tell David’s searching for one. “I am, you?” Oleg asks David.

David frowns at him.

“David did not tell you I was coming?” Oleg asks Chapman.

“I must have forgotten,” David says, a little too slow. He’s a terrible liar.

“Always so forgetful,” Oleg chides.

“Sorry,” David says. “Are we, um — are we meeting your girlfriend there, or.”

“Thought it’d be good to catch up just the two of us,” Chapman says, eyes flicking over to Oleg pointedly. “Father and son.”

Oleg gives him a bland smile.

*

Dinner is, in a word, uncomfortable. David’s quiet. David’s frequently quiet, but this quiet Oleg doesn’t like. Chapman tries and fails to start up conversation on a number of topics after they’ve ordered: David’s projected point total, which no player likes to discuss, because it’s asking for derailment, his job, places in Calgary they might like, as if they weren’t leaving for Edmonton in less than twelve hours.

“You have a girlfriend, Dave?” Chapman asks once their food’s arrived, and if he thinks that will be an effective conversation starter, he clearly doesn’t know his son at all.

“Um,” David says.

“Don’t know why you’re always single,” Chapman says. “Good looking, famous, wealthy kid like you. Guess it’s more fun to play the field, huh? You’re still young, no need to rush into anything.”

“I — there is someone,” David says, and Oleg smirks down at his plate. Terrible at lying unless it’s about Jake. Though Oleg supposes this is more careful omission.

“Finally settling down?” Chapman asks. David’s been settled since the day Oleg met him, though perhaps not in the way his father means. “You should come during the summer, bring her with you if you’re still together. What’s her name?”

“I need to use the bathroom,” David says, scraping his chair back.

“Like pulling teeth with him sometimes,” Chapman says. It’s a hideous metaphor, brings to mind torture. For David it seems to be, and Oleg’s beginning to understand why he was so reluctant to go in the first place.  

“David is private,” Oleg says.

“I’m his father,” Chapman says.

“David is private with everyone,” Oleg says, though perhaps not to this degree. He understands, however. Dinner has felt more like an interview than a reunion. Interrogation, even, Chapman searching for something he can use. For what, Oleg doesn’t know, but this isn’t conversation.

“It’s a girl’s name, not nuclear codes,” Chapman mutters. “You know her?”

Oleg doesn’t answer, spearing a carrot and raising it to his mouth. He takes his time chewing.

“Pretty easy question,” Chapman says.

“Not my question to answer,” Oleg says lightly.

“Why you here anyway?” Chapman asks. “He can’t even have a dinner with his father without a bodyguard? What is that?”

“Yes,” Oleg asks. “What is that?”

“What, you don’t understand English now?” Chapman asks.

Oleg doesn’t bother to respond, just looks at him silently until Chapman grows uncomfortable.

“Dave is—” Chapman starts.

“He prefers to be called David,” Oleg interrupts.

“What, you suddenly the arbiter of what I can call my fucking kid?” Chapman asks.

“I didn’t say you could not call him Dave,” Oleg says. “I said he does not like it. Which should matter to you.”

“You have kids, Igor?” Chapman asks. It’s on purpose, Oleg thinks, meant to bother him. This isn’t a man who forgets names. Except his son’s, evidently.

“Three,” Oleg says, which he doesn’t think Chapman expected, a comment dying on his lips, probably something about Oleg not being able to talk when until he has them. “My wife is pregnant, so four, soon.”

“Congratulations,” Chapman mutters.

“Thank you,” Oleg says.

From the corner of his eye he sees David hovering about ten feet back, looking supremely uncomfortable. Oleg waves him off silently and David, relieved looking, backs up toward the washrooms again.

“You’ve known Dave, what, a year and you think you know my son better than I do?” Chapman asks.

“I’ve known David since he was eighteen,” Oleg says evenly. “This is my seventh season playing with him. Which you would know if you paid attention to your son’s career beyond reading his statistics.”

Chapman goes red. Embarrassment or anger, Oleg can’t tell. He doesn’t much care.

Oleg reaches for his wallet and counts out fifties, putting them down beside his plate. “That should be more than enough,” Oleg says.

“Excuse me?” Chapman says.

“I’ve known David since he was eighteen,” Oleg repeats. “And he has never spoken of you. I now see why.”

Oleg shrugs his coat on, grabs David’s off the back of his chair. David comes out of bathroom the hallway he was valiantly pretending not to hide in, frowning.

“We’re leaving,” Oleg says, tosses David his coat.

“We — what?” David asks.

“You don’t have to,” Oleg says. “If you want to stay.”

David laughs a little, strained, which is what Oleg thought.

“He’s a shit,” Oleg says, when they get outside.

“What?” David asks, laughing again.

“You heard me,” Oleg says.

“He is,” David says, hesitant. “A shit.”

“Yes,” Oleg says. “I know where the guys went, if you want to get a drink.” With people who give a shit, he doesn’t add.

David considers.

“Lombardi apparently has insulted Canada’s honor,” Oleg says, scanning through his texts. “According to Dylan, ‘Matty’s asking for trial by combat. I’m allowing it.’.”

David huffs out a laugh again, and this time it’s lighter. “Sure,” David says. “That sounds good.”


End file.
